


In That Sleep Of Death

by coolbreeze1



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Ancient Devices, Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-10
Updated: 2011-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-24 12:08:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolbreeze1/pseuds/coolbreeze1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the Wraith culling in earnest across the galaxy and mysterious mercenaries attacking defenseless villages, Team Sheppard chases after a possible weapon left behind by the Ancients in an abandoned outpost. They return empty-handed, but increasingly strange behavior causes them to question just exactly what they might have discovered after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In That Sleep Of Death

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to my always awesome beta, everybetty. This story took a drastic turn in the revision phase (much to my panic) with much better results, and super huge thanks to tridget for coming in at the last minute for some great direction and feedback on this story. You guys are great!!!
> 
> This was written for the 2011 SGA Genficathon.  
> Category: Team  
> Prompt: To be or not to be

(There were some pictures made in connection to this story by tridget that can be seen over on the original posting on LJ: [Version with artwork](http://sga-genficathon.livejournal.com/81477.html)

  
**In That Sleep of Death**

 

 _To be, or not to be, that is the question:  
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer  
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,  
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,  
And by opposing end them? To die, to sleep,  
No more; and by a sleep to say we end  
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks  
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation  
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep;  
To sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there's the rub:  
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,  
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,  
Must give us pause – there's the respect  
That makes calamity of so long life._  
—Hamlet, 3:1, William Shakespeare

 

PART 1

"You know what this reminds me of?" John asked, grabbing at the low hanging branch in front of him and snapping it off the tree, out of his way.

"A jungle?" Rodney huffed behind him. He was winded and barely had enough breath to put two words together, and yet John still heard the sarcastic, snappish tone.

"This is a jungle," Ronon called out, at least a dozen feet ahead of them. He was having far less difficulty with the terrain than the rest of them. John scowled at him and took another step forward, almost twisting his ankle on a tree root covered in underbrush.

The bushes behind him rustled and snapped as Rodney did his own flailing. "Thank you, Mr. Obvious," he muttered.

"It reminds me of a dog, chasing its tail," John continued. He wiped his forearm across his forehead, knowing he had succeeded only in smearing sweat and dirt all over his face. "Looks hilarious. Unless you’re the dog."

Teyla was a few paces in front of him and she turned at his words, arching an eyebrow. "I do not follow."

"The dog, it runs in circles, chasing after its tail but never catching it. Endless circles. Around and around." He grabbed another branch, almost tore it off, then decided to let it snap back behind him with a whack.

"Sheppard!"

He grinned at Rodney’s squawk as the branch slapped the scientist’s chest. Teyla rolled her eyes and continued walking after Ronon, who was now at least twenty feet ahead of them. It was hotter than hell and muggier than New Orleans in July, but she looked like she’d hardly broken a sweat. John blinked as a drip of moisture wound its way around his eyebrow and down the side of his face.

"I understand the image of the dog chasing its tail," she said as she moved. "How does it relate to this mission?"

"Oomph," John grunted as Teyla stepped past a branch and let it snap into his arm. Sly dog. She would pay for that one. "McKay or someone finds an obscure reference in the Ancient database to a ‘great weapon to fight the Wraith,’" he said, "and we go running after it like Pavlov’s dogs."

"What is it with you and dogs today—" Rodney’s voice cut off behind him, followed by a heavy thump and a moan of pain.

John stopped, turned, and dragged himself back to the scientist, carefully picking his way. He held a hand out and helped his teammate up to his feet. Rodney looked murderous as he rubbed the dirt off his hands on his pants.

"You okay?"

"No, I am not okay," he huffed. "I am trudging through a jungle, dying of heat stroke, and being eaten alive by bugs. There’s not even a path. Why isn’t there a path through this Godforsaken vegetative hellhole?"

John slapped at a bug, smearing the little bastard into his neck, and smiled. Rodney’s face darkened at the sight.

"You’re the one who came across the reference to a powerful Ancient weapon," John said, uncapping his canteen and handing it over to Rodney, who chugged half of it in a single swallow.

"It’s not my fault the Wraith are on the rampage," he answered. Water dripped from the side of his mouth.

John ripped the canteen out of his hand in disgust and shoved it back into the holder on his belt. He had less than a third of it left, they had at least an hour’s hike back to the gate, and they’d seen no sign of anything remotely man-made, or Ancient-made, since arriving.

"Found something," Ronon called out through the trees.

Check that. He turned back and began pushing through the underbrush toward the sound of Ronon’s voice. It wasn’t until he was a dozen feet from the man that he realized he was standing next to not just a steep hill but a building, overgrown with vines and trees. Ronon rapped his knuckles against the side, and John heard the metal wall echo. Teyla stood next to him, studying the canvas of vegetation.

"Oh, thank God," Rodney huffed, catching up to them. "Something’s here."

"Something _was_ here," John corrected. "My confidence in your vague ‘great weapon’ allusion is waning."

"There is an entrance here," Teyla said, interrupting Rodney before he launched into the same diatribe of how _he hadn’t written anything in the Ancient database and couldn’t be blamed for its lack of clarity_ that they had all been subjected to a half an hour earlier.

It took several minutes for them to cut through the branches, revealing a dark tunnel. John led the way, moving cautiously, using the flashlight on his P90 to light the way. It was thankfully cooler inside the outpost—which, as it turned out, was built into the hill. The deeper they went, the less jungle growth they encountered, giving him a small ember of hope that maybe this time, the dog would actually catch its tail.

"Is your confidence waxing yet?" Rodney whispered as they stepped into a round room at the end of the entrance hall. The floors and walls were ornately decorated, the Ancient style unmistakable.

"Wax on, wax off," John muttered, moving cautiously along the perimeter and glancing down two other dark hallways branching off from the room. "No lights," he called out. "Didn’t the Ancients have a thing for automatic lights?"

"No power equals no lights."

"Which way?"

"What am I, Ans—"

"Answer Man—yes, we know. And no, you aren’t." John gestured toward the nearest hallway. "This way, then."

He didn’t wait for anyone’s reply, but a few seconds later, he heard them moving behind him. Flashlight beams danced across the walls and floors as they moved. He blinked at the sensation of a breeze, scrunching his nose up at the stench of rotting vegetation. Despite the slight current of air, the smell felt like it was growing thicker the farther they moved down the hallway.

"There are doors along the walls," Teyla called out a few minutes later.

John stopped, studying a slight indent next to him. It certainly looked like a door, but it was sealed tight. No power, no lights, no automatic doors. Ronon pushed against another door ten feet down the hall, to no avail.

"We’ll keep going until we hit the end of the hall or an open door," John said.

"And if don’t find an open door?" Rodney asked.

"There’s always grenades."

It was too easy, some days, pushing the physicist’s buttons. He heard the scientist groan, then mutter under his breath about soldiers and bombs and obsessions over blowing stuff up. With a grin, John took point again and continued leading them through the complex.

In the end, they found one open door halfway along the second hallway. It led into a large room with tables and equipment—most of which looked broken and useless to John—scattered throughout. Rodney moved forward quickly, his scanner out and his face glowing. A gaping hole in the far wall and ceiling let in enough natural light that John flipped his flashlight off. He let the P90 hang from the clip on his vest and rested his hands on top.

"This looks promising," Rodney said, moving to one of the tables along the wall and bending over an elaborate box.

"This looks old," Ronon said. John looked over to see a smile split the Satedan’s face. " _Ancient_ , even."

"Nice one, Chewie," John said. He looked up and traced the ceiling beams to a large, round lamp at the center. Branches grew inward from the broken wall and ceiling, bringing with it mold and mud, and John sniffed at the dank, pungent odor in the room.

"This is definitely Ancient," Rodney piped up, missing Ronon’s joke completely.

"Don’t touch anything until you know it’s not going to blow up," he warned. He stepped forward, glancing down as he picked his way across the room. He saw the puddle of water—he really did—but he thought nothing of it. It wasn’t deep, but as he stepped down, he felt his foot slip. Mold grew under the warm-water puddle, and the deep tread of his boots had no chance of maintaining a grip on the smooth metal floor.

He cried out in surprise as his leg shot out from under him. His arms flailed up and behind him, seeking balance, while the P90 swung dangerously close to clocking him in the face. He saw Ronon and Teyla lurch forward and Rodney spinning around fast. He grabbed instinctively at the broken table off to his side and felt the jagged edge of the metal sink painfully into the soft flesh of his palm as his weight shifted backward.

He hit the ground a split second later, snapping his head back and slamming it into the floor. Stars erupted in his vision, orbiting across the ceiling at a dizzying speed. The P90 landed with a dull thud on his chest.

"John!"

He heard Teyla’s voice floating distantly around him, but he couldn’t see beyond the flashes of white spots. He groaned in response, forcing air into lungs that had momentarily been stunned frozen.

"Oh, crap," Rodney’s voice muttered. If John wasn’t trying so hard to breathe, he might have been worried by the scientist’s tone.

"What?" Ronon was worried. John would let him handle it.

"He surprised me. I…I’m not sure, but I hit something over here…"

"You said don’t touch anything."

"I didn’t mean to!"

A humming sound was growing louder—loud enough that John was finally forced to acknowledge that it was coming from the building and not inside his head. The light above him was on as well. Strange. Rodney had said there was no power here. No power, no lights.

Teyla suddenly appeared, kneeling and peering down at him in concern. She glanced up at Rodney and Ronon, then the light overhead. It was green, a bright fluorescent green. A throbbing pain began pounding against the back of John’s head where he’d slammed it against the floor, and water was seeping into his pants and t-shirt. He should get up. It was a long walk home, and the thought of doing it soaking wet…he shivered.

"Something’s happening!" Rodney’s voice, loud, high-pitched, panicked, and echoing around the room. The light above John was flashing now. Or maybe that was just in his head. Whatever it was, the bright flares were burning painfully against his retinas. He closed his eyes with a moan, felt Teyla’s hand on his arm, then heard the rest of his teammates cry out in pain. Something hard landed across his chest in time with the thud of things falling to the floor around him.

He opened his eyes just as a blaze of green exploded out of the ceiling, bathing the entire room in its glow for a full second before disappearing with a snapping pop.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Carson snapped his gloves off and tossed them into the nearest bin, missing completely.

"And none of you lost consciousness?" he asked again. He walked across the room and swiped at the gloves, throwing them with force into the trash. When no one answered, he stood, facing Colonel Sheppard and his team.

They were staring at each other, looking a little confused and lost. Alarm bells rang in his head, but he pushed it back, forcing an expression of calm over his face. Ronon and Teyla both sat on a gurney, their legs swinging gently beneath them. Rodney was staring at the floor, looking like he was attempting to solve a complex math equation in his head. John lay on another gurney with his eyes closed, holding an icepack to the back of his head and hissing as Marie cleaned out the gash on his hand.

Rodney finally looked up and shrugged. "I ducked down when the lights started flashing, then it was dark—relatively speaking, anyway. Just the sunlight from the hole in the wall. Then… No, I’m pretty sure we weren’t unconscious."

He sounded far from sure about that. Carson scratched his chin, considering. He’d run scans on all of them as soon as they’d stumbled in, but so far, nothing out of the ordinary had turned up on the tests he’d run. "And you all saw this green light?"

"Kind of hard to miss," Rodney huffed. "It was this big, flashing bulb in the middle of the ceiling."

"No power, no light," John mumbled.

"There must have been some power," Rodney said.

"So you all ducked for cover, and then immediately came back here?"

"Colonel Sheppard’s hand was bleeding," Teyla explained. John scowled.

Carson had heard the story from each of them already, but he asked again, wanting to make sure he hadn’t missed anything.

"Pretty much," Ronon said with a shrug.

Rodney glanced around the room. "Where’s my stuff?"

Carson pointed to the table the team had dropped all of their equipment on as they’d entered. They hadn’t even stopped by the armory to unload their weapons, and given their current dazed looks, maybe it was better that they didn’t handle their weapons for the rest of the night.

"I’ll get someone to return your weapons to the armory," he called out.

Rodney waved a hand at him, going straight for his backpack and scanner. Ronon hopped off the table and headed for their equipment as well. Elise came in, holding an IV bag and stepping around Carson to head toward the colonel. Carson nodded absently at the nurse, wracking his brain for a reason to keep them all here. Something was wrong. He didn’t know what, but he knew this team—knew how they should be behaving. They were too… _subdued_ , maybe, was the word he was looking for.

"Aw, Doc. No IV. I don’t need an IV," John griped, trying to sit up. He managed a few inches before he groaned and flopped back down, gripping the icepack tighter to his head.

"You lost a fair amount of blood from that cut," Carson said. "Not to mention you’re all dehydrated from walking through a hot jungle. I ought to put all of you on IVs and keep you for observation."

"I’m not staying," Ronon announced.

"Same," Rodney said next to him.

Teyla slid off the gurney. "Did you find something in the tests you ran?"

Carson sighed. He hadn’t found anything. He knew he was a little over-protective at times, and he wondered if he was reading too much into the situation. They had, after all, just trekked through a jungle for hours on end. Anyone would be tired and a little subdued after a day like that.

"The tests came back normal—" he started.

"Great, I’m starved. Let’s go," Rodney said, stepping toward the infirmary doors, Ronon right behind him.

"Sounds good," John said, and this time he managed to sit all the way up, pulling his injured hand away from Marie. The gash re-opened, and a fresh welling of blood dripped across his palm.

"Not you," Carson barked, pointing at the colonel. The others may have been fine, but John did have an injury. Two, in fact. He turned back to Ronon and Rodney. "The rest of you will go get something to eat, drink lots of fluids, and come back here in no less than two hours for another checkup before you go off to bed. Not to the lab, Rodney. Bed."

"Are you asking me out?" Rodney said, smirking. John snorted behind him, then hissed when Marie began working on his hand again.

"Ach, I don’t know why I put up with the lot of you. If you’re not back here in two hours, you will be my guest for 48 hours observation. In isolation."

Ronon and Rodney spun on their heels, darting out quickly. Teyla walked over to John’s bed, patting his leg. "Will you be alright, John?"

"I’ll live," he grumbled. He opened his eyes to smile at Teyla but caught sight of Marie prepping a syringe instead, a suture kit laid out on a small table next to him. He groaned, closing his eyes.

Teyla squeezed his shin in sympathy, then turned to Carson. "See you in two hours," she said before exiting the infirmary.

At least one of them listened to him. He shook his head, then stepped forward, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves. He peered down at the gash on John’s hand, grimacing at the ragged cut. "Looks like you’re going to need some stitches, Colonel. Let’s get you taken care of."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The pain in his hand was pissing him off, and the morning sunshine streaming through the windows was making his head pound.

"I’m fine, Doc," John snapped. "I want out."

Carson ignored him, studying the computer tablet. He was frowning slightly, but that could have more to do with John’s foul mood than whatever he was reading. He scratched his chin, then tapped the tablet, pulling up another screen.

John sighed loudly, curling his left hand into a fist and staring up at the ceiling. The other hand lay carefully on his lap, heavily bandaged and sore as hell. He was lashing out and acting like a petulant child, but knowing that and controlling it were two different things. He’d fallen asleep after they’d stitched his hand up and while they were bandaging it, and then they’d left him in the infirmary for the night. When he’d woken up again, sometime around 2am, the night-shift doctor had decided to keep him until morning.

Carson set the tablet down on the table next to the bed, then dug into his pocket for a thermometer.

John looked over at him with a grimace. "You _just_ took my temperature. I am not running a fever."

The doctor smiled slightly, almost patronizingly, and held the thermometer up in his hand. "Marie took your temperature over an hour ago."

"They’ve taken my temperature fifteen times. How the hell am I supposed to sleep with people poking stuff in my ears all night? And you’re not exactly quiet around here."

"You have a deep cut in your hand, you spent an indeterminate amount of time laying in a puddle of mud, mold, and rotting plants—"

" _Seconds_ , at the most."

"—and then you walked through a hot jungle before finally getting it cleaned and bandaged. The chances of you picking up an infection in the cut is fairly high, and I don’t want to take any chances on you catching something nasty."

Without waiting for a response from John, he stuck the thermometer in his ear, pinning his head to the pillow with his other hand. John clenched his jaw, waiting for the doctor to finish. He understood what he was saying, and he might have even agreed with him, _if he’d gotten more than an hour’s sleep since 2 that morning._

"How’s the headache?"

"Gone."

Carson sighed. "John…"

"Fine," John huffed. "I have a headache, but if your staff knew how to whisper and walk without stomping and turn off these damn beeping machines, I probably wouldn’t have a headache at all because I would have gotten _a full night’s rest._ "

This prompted another exam of the bump on the back of his head and a penlight being flashed in his eyes. The result was the same as yesterday: no concussion, just a bruise. John could already feel that the swelling had gone down significantly.

In short, he was _fine._

"Alright, Colonel. We’ll go ahead and get you released but you’re on light duty for a few more days until that hand heals a little more. No sparring, no running, no missions."

"Doc!"

"No arguments. I’ll prescribe something for the pain that you can take as needed and an antibiotic regimen to stem off any infection.

Being pissy wasn’t working. He took a deep breath, trying to get Carson to see reason. "Look, Carson. I understand you’re just trying to help, but I don’t have time to sit around on light duty. The Wraith have stepped up their activities all over this damn galaxy, and on top of that, we’ve got some rogue mercenary group wreaking havoc on our allies. I need to be out there doing something."

The Scotsman folded his arms, his face darkening, and John stifled a sigh. Apparently, trying to sound reasonable wasn’t the right tactic this morning.

"I am well aware of what is going on and what all of the gate teams are facing, Colonel. My staff has been working to the point of exhaustion trying to keep you all healthy."

John held up his hand. "Whoa, doc. I didn’t mean to imply you weren’t. I’m just…" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep well last night, I have a headache, and my hand hurts like hell. I just want to go back to my quarters."

The tension in Carson’s shoulders visibly eased, and he nodded. "I understand. I’ll get your medication for you in a minute and then you’re free to go. But you’re still on light duty until further notice."

John forced a small smile, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He shouldn’t have expected anything less. They’d changed him into scrubs at some point the night before, while he’d still been asleep, and he glanced around the room looking for his clothes.

Carson seemed to read his mind. "Your clothes were taken down to Laundry and aren’t done yet. You’re welcome to wear the scrubs back to your room, but just make sure to bring them back."

"Got it." He moved to slide off the gurney.

"Not so fast," Carson interrupted. "I’m serious about taking it easy. Get some rest and let your hand heal, and maybe you can be back on full duty in a few days. Push yourself and let it get infected, and you could find yourself off your feet for weeks."

John rubbed his face, grumbling in reply. The doctor disappeared for a few minutes, long enough for John to slip into his boots. When he returned, he handed him two containers—the painkillers and antibiotics—with instructions on when and how often to take them, as well as several plastic bags to cover his hand when he showered.

John headed straight for his room, relishing the hot shower even though he had to leave his right hand hanging outside of the shower curtain. Shampooing one-handed was harder than he liked to admit, but soon he was clean, wearing his own clothes, and ironically not tired at all.

" _Weir to Sheppard._ "

Saved by the bell. Kind of.

"Sheppard here," he answered promptly. "What’s up?"

" _Are you free to meet right now?_ "

John was already walking across his room, tucking in his shirt. "On my way," he quipped. Light duty always included meetings, but this time he was glad for the distraction. He felt antsy, and he walked quickly through the halls, forcing scientists and soldiers alike to step out of his way as he moved.

"You look more tired today than you did yesterday," Elizabeth said, looking up from her computer. Her eyebrows rose in surprise and an expression of concern twisted the corners of her mouth.

"That’s because some churlish doctor decided to keep me all night in the infirmary, and it’s impossible to sleep in the infirmary."

The concern morphed into amusement. "Churlish?"

"Yes," John replied, folding his arms and settling into the chair across from her desk. "Churlish."

She leaned forward, seriousness crowding back into her expression. "There’s been another attack."

John sighed, fatigue suddenly seeping into him. "The mercenaries?"

"Looks like it." She handed him her computer tablet with the latest report. "Lorne’s team returned late last night. The villages around the gate had been razed, and the farm fields were still burning."

He scowled, glancing through the brief description on the screen in front of him. "We’re sure this wasn’t the Wraith?"

"No desiccated bodies. A number of villagers, killed by gunfire."

"Damn."

"I got the brief report from Rodney on your mission yesterday. No luck at the outpost, I take it?"

"Pavlov’s dogs," he muttered, skimming through Lorne’s report again.

"What?"

John waved his bandaged hand at her. "Never mind. The outpost was definitely Ancient, but most of the doors were sealed shut. There was no power to the place—"

 _Except for that flashing green light._

"—and the one room that was open was nothing but broken stuff and mold and jungle creep."

"Rodney wants to go back."

John raised his eyebrows.

"In a jumper, of course. He argued quite passionately that we couldn’t just give up on the place after one brief walk-through. It was definitely Ancient in origin, and there were sealed rooms that might contain something useful."

John leaned forward and pinched the bridge of his nose. His headache was coming back and his hand had never quite lost its throbbing ache, despite the painkillers he’d taken. He needed a nap.

"A jumper will never work—the jungle’s too thick."

"Should I put the outpost mission back on your team’s rotation then? When you’re back on full duty, of course."

"Short answer—yes. But I’m a little more concerned about these ongoing, mysterious non-Wraith attacks. Whoever these bastards are, they’re wreaking havoc and we’ve made no progress on finding out who they are or where they’re coming from."

"Alright, I’ll let Rodney know," Elizabeth answered. She eyed John a moment, then stood up. John followed suit immediately, handing her back her tablet. "Get some rest, John. You look exhausted."

He grunted in reply, too tired to respond.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

John crashed hard in his room. When he woke up, he blinked at the clock and saw that nearly four hours had passed. He stretched out stiff muscles, feeling the ache of having slept in the same position for too long. He stumbled out of bed, yelping when he used his injured hand to push himself to his feet, and padded to the bathroom.

When he emerged a moment later, he felt much more awake. He smiled at the sight of a food tray on the small table next to his bed and a handwritten note from Carson to eat everything and take his pills. John did so gladly, the gash in his hand throbbing.

He and Ronon had a standing reservation for Small Gym #4 every day from 1430 to 1530—whether they were there to use it or not—and he wondered if the big guy was working out on his own. It was just a few minutes before 1500 now. John slipped on a pair of running shoes and headed for the gym. He heard the clatter of sticks and grunts of exertion before he’d even opened the doors, and smiled at the sight of Teyla dancing across the gym, the sticks in her hand spinning like pinwheels as she advanced on Ronon.

John slipped along the wall to the bench on the far side, watching them fight. Teyla had worked Ronon into a corner, but John knew from experience how fast Ronon could move despite his size. He proved it again a second later when Teyla lunged with a swing that would have smacked across his back and dropped him to the floor. He ducked and rolled, coming up behind her and swinging his own bantos rods.

Bantos was an Athosian martial art, and Teyla an expert. It leveled the playing field against the bigger, stronger man. John watched her recover from her miss to counter the swing easily. They twisted and spun again, back across the floor. John grabbed Ronon’s canteen and took a swig of water, mesmerized by their movements. Some day, perhaps, he might be able to fight with the fluidity and grace that Teyla seemed to do unconsciously, but he was far from that moment now. He stared down at his bum hand, flexing his fingers and wincing when that pulled against the tender skin beneath the thick bandage.

He heard a grunt, then the thumping of a body hitting the mat. He glanced up to see Teyla twirling a stick in her hand and standing over a sprawled Ronon. They were both sweating and breathing hard, both grinning at the exertion and adrenaline of a full sparring match. After a second, Teyla relaxed and held a hand out to Ronon, pulling him up to his feet.

She turned to John, a smile splitting her face. "It is good to see you out of the infirmary," she said.

"Wasn’t supposed to stay there all night," he muttered.

She moved to the bench, grabbing a towel and wiping the sweat off her face. Ronon held out his hand for the water bottle, which John tossed awkwardly with his left hand.

"How is your hand?" Teyla asked, grabbing her own bottle.

"Sore. Not allowed to spar or run for a few days."

"It is good to let it heal."

John narrowed his eyes, suspicious. Had Carson called them up and told them to make sure he took it easy? He wouldn’t put it past the doctor. His intentions were good, but he tended to be a little overly cautious at times with his patients.

 _For good reason._ John sighed at the thought. Carson was just doing his job, and he was damn good at it. He stifled the grumpiness he’d felt most of the day and smiled at Teyla.

"Yeah, it is," he said. "I’m on light duty for a few days, so no team missions for the rest of the week."

Ronon tossed the empty water bottle back toward John. "Let’s go again," he said to Teyla.

She shook her head, but she stood up anyway, swinging her sticks around and loosening up her shoulders. "You have already run to the north pier and back this morning. Are you sure?"

Ronon’s answering grin bordered on manic. John grinned in response, watching the two of them square off and cursing the sharp pain jabbing at his hand. Within seconds, the sticks were flying a hundred miles an hour again, the two fighters lunging, ducking, spinning, and jumping like it was a dance they’d choreographed down to tenths of a second.

Teyla was moving in on him again, but this time, Ronon flicked his sticks one direction, twisted in the opposite as he swept a leg out, and with a cry, popped up and lunged forward simultaneously. Teyla’s sticks flew through the air, clattering against the wall, while she stumbled backward and landed with a heavy whack. John had never seen that move. Neither, apparently, had Teyla.

"You have _got_ to teach me that," he breathed, impressed.

Ronon shot him a grin, then extended a hand out to Teyla and pulled her to her feet.

"That was impressive," she agreed.

The two of them sat down, Teyla next to John and Ronon on the floor. They were both breathing heavily. Ronon took a long drink from his canteen then pinned John with a stare.

"What?" John finally asked.

"We going back to that outpost?"

"Eventually," he answered slowly. "Why?"

"McKay wants to go back. Told me to tell you we should go."

John smiled, imagining how the conversation must have gone. "And were you supposed to tell me the part about McKay trying to get you to talk me into this?"

Ronon didn’t answer. He took another long sip from his canteen, but his eyes glinted with amusement.

"Yeah, thought so." He held up his hand. "We can’t go till Beckett gives me the all clear, but I’ve already talked to Elizabeth about it."

Ronon nodded, then froze as a thought occurred to him. John could almost see it bursting from the man’s expression. "No power. No jumpers. I’m going to have to carry a generator when we go back, aren’t I?"

Teyla laughed, and John grinned, holding up his hand. "I think I’ll still be too injured for any such heavy lifting."

Ronon scowled and rolled onto his knees, popping up to his feet. Behind him, the door to the gym slid open, and a young woman in Athosian garb poked her head in.

"I apologize for the disruption," she said, her gaze landing on Teyla. "There is a situation regarding the new housing locations that requires your attention."

John glanced from the woman to Teyla. He’d almost forgotten about the small group of Athosians currently living on Atlantis, their homes washed out in a recent spring flood. They’d been working on relocating some of the tents and re-building the ones destroyed in the storm.

"What is wrong?" Teyla asked, straightening up.

"A disagreement over where the new homes should be placed."

Teyla’s face darkened. "Garrod?"

"Yes, and Resik. Both want their tents placed on a small hill overlooking the river. Your mediation would be greatly appreciated."

Teyla sighed. "Those two have bickered since the moment they learned to speak." She nodded her head. "Very well. I will join you in a moment."

"Thank you, Teyla," the woman said, relief visible on her face. She stepped back, letting the doors slide closed, and John heard her footsteps echoing down the hall.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

Teyla gathered up her bantos rods and stuffed them into her bag. "It is a minor quarrel, easily resolved," she said. "They are like two children, always fighting over what the other one has." She glanced up at Ronon, who was spinning the bantos rods in his hands and warming up to fight again. "I would say that I am sorry to cut our session short, but I am not sure that is the case after that last fight."

Ronon’s grin grew bigger, and John couldn’t help up smile in response. Speaking of kids. Ronon was as big a kid as any of them, when he stopped thinking about the Wraith and being a runner and the destruction of his world and people for a few minutes.

Ronon jabbed his sticks at John. "You can’t fight?"

The smile dropped into a disgruntled scowl. "No," he pouted. "Not yet."

"Think Sergeant Campbell’s got a training class starting in a few minutes. I’ll be over there if you need me."

"Don’t kill my Marines!" John called out as Ronon spun on his heel and jogged out of the small gym. "He has entirely too much energy today," he muttered.

Teyla threw her head back and laughed, a deep rich sound. She pulled John to his feet, patting him on his shoulder as they walked out of the gym.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Teyla stood from the table, stretching out her back. Garrod and Resik had bickered and nitpicked for the first hour, almost causing both her and Halling to throw their hands up in despair and let the pair fight it out. Eventually, she’d steered the conversation away from them and toward the other Athosians who’d lost their homes.

And then something miraculous happened. With the focus off of the two men and what they have or didn’t have, the conversation became productive. With a little prodding from Teyla, they were soon laying out the benefits and disadvantages of each place relative to the needs of each family. Hours later, Halling rolled his map of the area up with a smile as Garrod and Resik slapped each other’s backs, friends again until the next squabbling argument.

"That was well handled," Halling said, once the two men were gone.

Teyla finally let loose the deep sigh she had been holding back. "If they spent as much energy on community endeavors as they did arguing with each other, they would accomplish many great things."

"Our people are not yet prepared for such greatness," Halling said with a smirk.

Teyla laughed. "Perhaps you are right."

"It is their family tradition after all. I find it somewhat comforting."

"I had the same thought earlier," she agreed. "And we made much progress on repairing the damage of the flood and resettling our people."

"We did. I have spoken with the engineers here and they are eager to help us rebuild as well." He paused, glancing at her. "I have been meaning to ask you. How was your mission yesterday?"

Teyla shrugged. "Colonel Sheppard compared us to animals chasing their tails, which turned out to be an apt analogy. The weapon Doctor McKay hoped to find was either not there, or not immediately obvious."

"That is unfortunate."

"Yes, it is. We need to gain an edge against the Wraith, but I fear we cannot continue to pin such high hopes on anything the Ancestors left behind. So much time has passed…" Her voice trailed off as she thought of the sealed doors they’d passed. "Perhaps a second visit will be more successful."

Halling gestured toward the door, and the two of them stepped out of the common room and into the hall. "You are returning?"

"We were not there long before the colonel cut his hand and we were forced to return. There was no power in the facility either, so our ability to explore was limited. I believe we are planning to return as soon as John is back on full duty."

They walked slowly down the wide hall. People sat in chairs or stood in small groups chit-chatting and greeting each other as they might have had they been sitting at home in front of their tents or around fire pits, and Teyla reveled at the sight of her people so close to her. It had been a while since she’d spent any length of time with them, something she realized she should not put off.

"And what of the mercenary group attacking defenseless villages?"

Teyla shook her head, sighing. "We have learned very little. They are elusive, striking fast and leaving almost no sign of their identity or origin behind them."

A small baby squawked in a cradle, waving her fists as they passed, and Teyla paused to pick her up. The child was only a couple of months old, and the last few nights had been filled with her crying. The young couple and their baby had taken residence in the room right next to Teyla’s, and she’d been acutely aware of each time the child awakened.

Teyla grinned at the small baby, bouncing the child in her arms. She glanced up at Halling to see him smiling fondly at the two of them. "And how is Jinto these days?"

Halling rubbed a finger under the baby’s chin, eliciting a giggle. "Growing too fast, as usual," he replied. He straightened, patting Teyla on the shoulder. "I will talk to the engineers tonight about our plans."

"Thank you, Halling."

He waved again, disappearing down the far end of the hall. The child gave a whimpering cry, squirming in Teyla’s arms, and she began to rock her gently.

"And how are you this day, Ennaeya? You should be very tired, given how little you slept last night."

"Oh, Teyla, I did not mean to impose," a young woman called out, hurrying over to Teyla’s side and holding her arms out for the baby.

Teyla pressed her cheek against the side of the child’s head, inhaling the clean scent. "It is no bother at all." She kissed her lightly, then lifted the infant into her mother’s arms. The young woman beamed, a proud, first-time mother. "It is good to be around such a new life," Teyla said. "It is reminder of all the good in life we still enjoy, despite the struggles."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The mysterious mercenaries had attacked again. Not that any of them should be surprised by this anymore, but it was not exactly the way Rodney wanted to start off his day.

At least it wasn’t the Wraith, although these phantom warriors were proving to be as elusive and destructive as… Okay, he amended. Not _as destructive_ as the Wraith, but if the Wraith only attacked two or three villages on a planet, then within each village, relative to that, they were equally…bad.

He groaned, shaking his head. He was over-thinking this too much.

"What I really don’t like," he snapped at a passing scientist, a nuclear engineer giving him a bug-eyed stare, "Whether it’s the Wraith attacking—because they always are—or the Genii wannabes of the week, is everyone on the base asking what happened to my ‘great weapon against the Wraith’ or my ‘great defense against everything.’ It’s not _mine!_ "

The squirrelly man flinched, skittering to the other side of the hallway. He’d stopped walking as he’d shouted at him— _What was his name again?_ —but he forced himself to start moving again toward his lab. The morning’s briefing had been long and torturous, and he’d couldn’t help but think of Sheppard’s analogy of the dog running in circles.

He was the dog, chasing after every little juicy tidbit some egotistical Ancient asshole had left in the database. It wasn’t just about weapons. There was so much in the database, so many advances that he could make, winning a dozen Nobel prizes in the process, if only he could think of the right keywords to search out the good information, extract the gems from the Ancient pile of Swiss-cheese _shit_ that was the database.

He sighed, trudging through the hallway with a cup of coffee in one hand and his laptop in the other. It wasn’t quite that simple, but as an analogy, it was on par with Sheppard and his dogs.

"And to top it all off, I didn’t even get breakfast," he announced, walking into his lab. The woman at the computer right next to the door jumped, squealing a little in surprise.

Rodney breezed past her to the tables set up in the center of the room, plopping down across from Radek Zelenka. The woman near the door—apparently, it was _Let’s forget everyone’s name today_ Day, because he couldn’t even come up with the first letter at the moment—was new and still adjusting to Rodney’s "management style." In fact, he was surprised she wasn’t crying. She seemed to do that a lot. Homesickness, probably.

Radek was glaring at him.

"What?" he asked, exasperated.

The Czech said nothing, but he glanced at the woman sitting near the door then pointedly looked at Rodney.

"I am tired and hungry and I haven’t had my coffee yet." And he couldn’t figure out what Radek was trying to tell him with a few blinks and an eyebrow wiggle.

"I saw you with two cups in the hallway this morning," Radek said.

"That was before the briefing. Any coffee consumed before a briefing is automatically neutralized by the endless dronings of bureaucrats—"

"Weir," Radek supplied.

"—pseudo-scientists—"

"Carson was there as well?"

"No, actually he wasn’t. By pseudo-scientists, I am referring to anyone in the," he raised his hands, curling his fingers into imaginary quotation marks, " _life sciences._ And let’s not forget all the soldier boys and girls."

"Colonel Sheppard."

Rodney sat down on at the table. "He wasn’t there either. Bastard. No one notices when he doesn’t show up, but I’m two minutes late and I have fifteen people calling me on the radio to find out why I’m not in the meeting."

Radek snorted and settled back to whatever the hell he was working on. Rodney flipped his laptop open and took a long swig from his coffee cup as his programs booted up. The first box showed his fruitless efforts to pull up anything more on the Great Weapon his team had failed to find the day before.

"Why are people always complaining to me about not finding what they need in the Ancient database? Do they think I wrote it all up and can find anything and everything at the drop of a hat? That I’m purposely being obtuse about a weapon that could destroy the Wraith because I like all of the attention?"

He downed the rest of his coffee and slammed the mug down on the table right as the woman who sat near door walked behind Zelenka. She jumped again, walking faster toward the far door leading into another wing of labs. Rodney felt a perverse pleasure in her reaction.

Bet she moved to a new lab by the end of the week.

"Can you stop with the talking and banging of cups? I am trying to work here."

Rodney narrowed his gaze. "Feel free to go somewhere else," he hissed. He glanced back at his screen, the cursor in the search box taunting him. They had to go back to that outpost, and yet when he’d said that in the meeting, everyone had looked at him like he was half out of his mind. Like he didn’t repeatedly save everyone’s collective asses on a near daily basis. _Why were they still questioning him?_

He looked up in time to see Radek rolling his eyes. "Have you looked over the last simulations? I think we are close to field testing these power upgrades."

"Yes, yes, yes. Pulling those up now."

They worked in silence for a moment as Rodney let his attention zero in on the simulation results. They looked good, and he was anxious to push this project forward. The Wraith and the mystery mercenaries could get in line behind the constant demands just living in Atlantis put on him. This particular project would increase their power by at least 30 percent, which they sorely needed, if everything ran according to plan.

Ha! Like anything ever ran according to plan.

"How was yesterday’s mission?" Radek asked, peering over the top of his screen. "Did you find anything?"

Rodney scowled, then remembered he hadn’t been in the meeting that morning. He unleashed again, ranting against the obscurity of the Ancients, the shoddy construction of their 10,000-year-old outposts, and their repeated tendency to leave dangerous equipment lying out in the open just waiting for him to set off. He was starting in on the theory that one of the Ancient assholes erased just enough of the database to send future generations to their deaths as some twisted joke when Radek held up his hand.

"Is Colonel Sheppard alright?"

Rodney’s rant sputtered to a stop. "What?"

"You said Colonel Sheppard was injured?"

"He’s fine," Rodney dismissed, but then it occurred to him that he hadn’t actually asked anyone. No one would be holding him up as the standard bearer for great friendship, but they knew that going in. Something clicked in his brain—was that the reason Elizabeth had turned down his request to return to the outpost immediately? He really should track Sheppard down. He’d tried to get Ronon on his side, promising him all of his dessert for the next month—like he was actually going to follow through on that one—if he convinced Sheppard to go back right away, but Sheppard would want to go back to the outpost anyway, just to make sure they hadn’t missed a possible weapon against the Wraith.

"That is good news."

"What is? We need to go back to the outpost, not sit here on our thumbs messing with these…," he waved at his computer, "mindless power upgrades."

Radek narrowed his eyes at him but didn’t respond to the jab at the power upgrades. It had been the Czech’s idea to begin with. He could finish it without Rodney’s help. As painful as it was to admit, Zelenka was no idiot.

"I wonder what the machine did, with the flashing green light?"

Rodney shrugged. "Disco ball gone wrong? I don’t know. Asshole Ancients with their stupid weapon references…"

"But there was no power."

"Not in the outpost, in general. There was a surge or something from that damn box. Now will you stop with the chattering? I’m trying to work here."

Radek sighed, scooting a little farther down the table, away from Rodney. "If only they had a machine that made you more pleasant. Perhaps quieter and less moody," he mumbled—almost inaudibly but not quite. Still loud enough for Rodney to hear.

Rodney grabbed his mug, stared at the coffee dregs at the bottom, then slammed it down on the table again, standing up.

"I need more coffee. Don’t slack off while I’m gone."

* * *

PART 2

Ronon turned the corner into the hallway leading to the large gym and grinned. He’d timed the run perfectly, arriving just as his self-defense class started. Sheppard talked about running like it was cathartic, allowing him to work out the stresses of leading the military on a daily basis. For Ronon, it did the opposite, and he always timed his runs so that they ended with him breezing into the gym, sweating and pumped up, ready to throw down with any of the military men in his training classes. He’d crushed them the day before, and as he entered the room that morning, he saw their eyes glint with anticipation. They would be looking for revenge today.

He downed the rest of his water and grabbed a towel, wiping his face clean. It took a few minutes for them to get paired off, and as they did so, Ronon mentally ran through the moves he could teach him. He never planned his classes out, preferring to go with whatever seemed right at the moment.

Today, nothing seemed right, and his thoughts drifted to Sheppard. He’d tried to run with Ronon, his hand all bandaged up like a white boxing glove, but they’d gone for no more than twenty minutes before Sheppard’s face had paled and he’d staggered to a stop. He’d waved Ronon’s concern off, telling him he was on light duty anyway and he should probably listen to the doctor about not running yet after all. Once Ronon was sure Sheppard wasn’t going to pass out or drop dead, he’d continued on to the north pier.

The Marines watched him, bouncing on their toes and pounding their fists against their legs. They were anxious, ready to work out. Ronon bit his lip, his mind going blank.

"Let’s…warm up," he finally said lamely. He shook his head, trying to pull some thoughts together. Ronon had retraced his jogging path after running to the end of the pier, and he’d found no sign of Sheppard. Obviously, the man had made it back to the city without any problems. He studied his class, focusing on the task at hand. Training. Self-defense. He needed to teach them…. something. The excitement he’d felt a few minutes earlier had dissipated.

He searched for one of his better students, finding the man’s face in the crowd. "Uh…Lieutenant…?"

"Skobelov," a squat man with a thick accent spoke up, stepping to the front of the pack.

"Right, Skobelov. Warm everyone up."

Most of the men showed up to class warmed up and ready to fight, but they followed the lieutenant’s lead through a series of exercises. Ronon backed away, refilling his water canteen and drinking deeply.

Thirsty, he was just thirsty. His thoughts settled as he watched his class work through some calisthenics. They’d been practicing hand-to-hand combat against an armed opponent for the last several weeks, and Ronon finally dredged up a couple of moves they still needed to work on. He stepped back onto the mat, cutting Skobelov’s warm-up short and paired everyone off again.

Within minutes, they were all practicing the first move with relative success. It wasn’t a new one. He’d shown it to them weeks earlier and many of them had clearly been practicing it. There was a second part to it, though—an alternate ending, as Sheppard had called it—and now seemed as good a time as any to show them.

"Alright," he called out. The grunts and cries around him stopped as everyone shifted their attention back to Ronon. "That move is for when someone armed with a knife or short weapon attacks you, and you are weaponless. It’s a good way to disarm them and stop them from impaling you—"

His voice caught, suddenly dry. He swallowed, working some moisture back into his throat. "Instead of disarming them so that neither of you have a weapon, you can finish the move by taking their weapon from them and…uh…impaling them."

"Cool," someone in the group said, to an echo of agreeing nods and shouts.

"I need a partner to demonstrate."

Skobelov stepped forward, popping his knuckles. Ronon held out one of the rubber knives they trained with, and the two men squared off. They moved through the disarming technique slowly, Ronon explaining along the way. The first part was easy, familiar. Skobelov followed Ronon’s instruction well enough, but as Ronon twisted around, guiding Skobelov’s lunging knife to the side, he felt his stomach clench in sudden apprehension.

His fingers tingled, losing their strength, and Skobelov stepped past Ronon, moving forward with his own momentum. He stutter stepped then turned, looking at the knife still in his hand in surprise.

"Sorry," Ronon grunted. "Let’s do it again. Same thing."

They went through the same move, but as Skobelov thrust forward with his knife again, Ronon felt a thrill of fear run through him. He backpedaled, almost tripping, and the lieutenant once again sailed past him.

 _What the hell?_ Ronon thought. He bent forward, his stomach cramping. The fear was replaced by a sudden urge to throw up, and he swallowed desperately against it. The gym was utterly silent, the men shifting uncomfortably on their feet in a loose circle around him. He could feel their stares hammering against him, and he clenched his jaw against the overwhelming need to run out of the room.

Someone handed him a full canteen of water, and he drank it down in desperation. As he lowered it, he saw the lieutenant step forward, looking worried.

"You are unwell, sir?"

Ronon shook his head, beginning to deny it, but then stopped. It would be a good excuse for his sudden inability to demonstrate a move he should have been able to do in his sleep.

"Little dizzy," he lied, the words rolling off his tongue. "Gonna have to cut the class short."

"It is alright," Skobelov said. He took the canteen that Ronon was holding out to him. "I continue. Maybe teach special Russian moves, yes?"

"Sure," Ronon grunted. He waved goodbye to the others as he weaved through them toward the door, relief that he’d escaped his class warring with irritation at wanting to leave.

Since when had he not wanted to spar or fight? He paused outside in the hallway, and the sound of fighting and mumbled voices picked up through the door, setting his nerves on edge. Maybe he hadn’t lied—maybe he was sick. He walk quickly down the hall, wanting nothing more than to get back to the quiet peace of his room.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

John stared at the computer screen in front of him, pondering. The one good thing about being on light duty was that it did give him a chance to catch up on some of his paperwork, and Elizabeth was screaming for those personnel evals. They weren’t due yet, but she seemed to be under the impression that he was going to be late turning them in.

He’d show her. He would turn them in _early._

He smiled, imagining the look on her face, but then frustration surged. That would require doing all of the evals and he was still staring at the first one. He glanced at his watch, frowning when he realized an hour had passed.

"Must be the drugs," he muttered. He leaned back and pinched the bridge of his nose. A headache was starting. Too much concentration on a small computer screen for him. He glanced at the large bay window off to the side that gave him a magnificent view of the southern towers and the ocean.

"Evals," he said, dragging his attention back to the computer. "Gotta finish these evals."

He stared at the name. Brian Kesson. See? That was the problem right there. Sergeant Kesson was a hot-headed, arrogant ashole. Insecure, for sure, but he tended to take it out on those around him. He’d been in more fights with his own people in the last six months than every other Marine combined, and one day, he was going to get someone killed. That kind of attitude and behavior did not work in Pegasus, not with the Wraith and the Genii and these new mercenary freaks out unleashing death and destruction.

His thoughts flew immediately to the mission—another attack. His hand throbbed painfully, but he was almost glad for it. It was his hand that had forced him to remain behind, and while he was never one to send people out to do a job he wasn’t willing to do himself, he’d been oddly relieved at the idea of skipping out on this one.

He shook his head, focusing back on the computer screen. His thought for the last month had been that it was time for Kesson to head back to Earth, but now… A bad mark on his six-month review would plague the guy’s career, and John knew all about black marks following you around. Could he really do that to the kid?

He went through the questions, marking off the ones he knew he could give Kesson satisfactories on. The sergeant may not be likeable, but he was good at his job. Most of the time. John marked a few other areas as neutral, then finally paused over the last few questions. He knew he’d planned to give him unsatisfactory in these sections, but he hesitated. What if he did that, and the kid gave up? Quit the military?

Or worse? What if he hated John for doing it, and then they ended up in the field together fighting the Wraith? What if John’s life depended on Kesson helping him or protecting him? Would he still do it after a bad review? Or would he leave John to die?

"Stupid," he breathed, shaking his head. "That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard."

He clicked on the unsatisfactory bubbles under the remaining questions quickly, before he could change his mind, then scowled when a box popped up, asking for his comments explaining why he’d given such low marks. The headache that had been threatening tightened its grip on his head.

"Screw it," he said, slamming the laptop closed. His relief at putting off the evals for another day was short-lived, though, when he realized he hadn’t saved his work. Which meant he would have to do Kesson’s review all over again.

He leaned forward, resting his head on folded arms across his desk. He felt worn out, but he hadn’t done much other than sit at his desk reading emails, the latest after-action reports, and most recently, the personnel evaluations. One personnel evaluation. His hand was throbbing, though. The pain had never quite let up since his failed attempt at a morning run, even after he’d taken his full dose of painkillers.

"Not one of your smartest plans, John," he said, his voice muffled under his arms.

Damn, he was tired. He pushed back and relaxed against his chair, forcing his eyes open. It was only mid-afternoon, but a nap was sounding too good. He flicked his laptop open again, determined to at least accomplish something that day. He downed another painkiller as the machine rebooted.

He couldn’t face the personnel evaluations. Elizabeth wasn’t expecting them on time anyway. He’d read all of the recent reports on Wraith cullings and the mysterious mercenary attacks. He couldn’t bring himself to look through those again. There was no new information anyway.

The weapon. He could research McKay’s Great Weapon. Wouldn’t Rodney get a kick out of that? He was always complaining about doing all of the work in the Ancient Database. It would be sweet justice to find the information that Rodney McKay, PhD, PhD, could not.

One of the scientists had build a search interface, and he began typing in anything related to the weapon, the outpost, and the planet that he could think of. The initial findings were promising—just like Rodney had said. No wonder he’d sent them off on a wild goose chase through the jungle.

Sun streamed through the corner of his window, lighting up the eastern wall as afternoon dipped into evening. John searched doggedly, keyword after keyword, for any more information on what they were looking for. When he finally sat back, two and a half hours had passed.

A headache was pulsing in his temples, and a weird aura jumped across his vision every time he looked at something. He closed his eyes with a groan, letting his head fall into his left hand. His right hand was hot and achy again, the painkillers almost completely worn off. He wanted to take another one—more for his head than his hand—but he thought it had been too soon. Carson had told him to space them out, to only take one every…

Four hours? Six? He couldn’t remember now. He grabbed at the pill bottle and tried to read the instructions printed on the side, but the lettering was too small and it blurred together before he could make sense of it.

"Screw it," he muttered. He uncapped the bottle and dry swallowed another pill.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The line for breakfast was blessedly short. Rodney sighed in relief to see that only three people were ahead of him. His hair was still wet and dripping down his neck, and he couldn’t now remember if he’d actually combed it or not.

But he’d missed breakfast the day before and he wasn’t going to miss it today. The line inched forward, the smell of waffles filling his nostrils. He breathed deeply. Waffles. That was a special treat. He picked up a tray and slid close to the person in front of him, ignoring the glare the man shot at him. The other guy pushed his tray along the counter, grabbing a stack of three waffles and plopping them on his plate. The smell tripled in intensity and Rodney’s stomach growled. Delicious syrupy waffle heaven.

He leaned forward, trying to reach around the man who was taking entirely too long picking out his syrup flavor. He ignored the man’s sigh, licking his lips in anticipation.

Then froze.

No waffles.

Son of a _bitch._

The man in front of him had taken the last of the waffles. Three waffles! He’d taken all of them, knowing there were no more. He felt his temper snap, his face flushing red in anger. Did that man have any idea what kind of pressure Rodney was under? How many demands he had to deal with on an hourly basis. He _needed_ those waffles.

Not just needed. Deserved. The least anyone around here could do was save him some goddamned waffles.

The man slid a few feet forward, giving Rodney a full view of the empty metal cafeteria bin, and then he leaned forward and _took the last four pieces of bacon._

Rodney’s finger flew in the air as a rush of words hit his brain. He could feel his heart pounding. He opened his mouth, ready to unleash on the man…

But nothing came out. The words in his mind fell away, and synapses stuttered to a stop. His mind went blank. The man slid away, oblivious to Rodney behind him, and grabbed a small bowl of fruit.

Words. Where were the words? He was breathing hard—too hard. The man turned away from the line and weaved into the crowd of tables, leaving Rodney standing with his mouth hanging open and silent.

"Doctor McKay, are you alright?"

He jerked, spinning toward the young woman behind the empty waffle bin, wearing a white apron and hairnet. The chef—she was in charge. She could make more.

"Waffles," he squeaked out.

She glanced down at the empty bin in front of her, then glanced over her shoulder. "We’re all out right now, but we’re cooking more. It’ll be another few minutes before they’re done. Would you like to wait?"

 _I don’t want to wait. I want my waffles now. I want bacon too. And I want whoever the hell was standing in front of me banned from the mess hall._

The words were there, clearly blazoned in his mind, but all that came out was a garbled, "Uggrnnh…"

The chef frowned. "Sorry? What?"

Rodney snapped his jaw shut. He was still breathing too fast, almost to the point of hyperventilating. Someone in line behind him coughed pointedly, and he frowned, looking at the empty containers.

"We have fruit, and there are some bowls of hot oatmeal at the end of the line, if you’d prefer?"

He dropped his finger, rubbing a suddenly sweaty palm against his shirt. He did not want fruit and oatmeal. He wanted waffles and bacon and syrup. He tried to say so, but his throat constricted and a headache flared behind his eyes.

"Fine," he rasped. He shoved his tray along, grabbing the fruit and oatmeal and heading for the team’s usual table on the balcony.

He was halfway through choking his breakfast down when Teyla arrived. She dropped a tray full of steaming hot waffles, soaked in maple syrup, on the table in front of him, then sat down with a smile.

"Good morning, Rodney," she greeted brightly.

He grunted, ducking his head and mashing the little oats with the back of his spoon into miniature pancakes. Pancakes. Waffles.

"You are not having waffles this morning?"

He glanced up to see Teyla carefully cutting a golden square and dipping it generously into a cup of fruit-flavored syrup. It amused Sheppard to no end, how she mixed the two flavors and ended up with more syrup than waffle or pancake in the end. Rodney had tried it, and admittedly, Teyla was on to something there.

"Rodney?"

He tore his eyes away from her breakfast. "They ran out."

"They have cooked more now," she said. "There was plenty when I was there, and there is no one in line at the moment."

Rodney glanced at the food counter and could see the stacks of waffles even from this distance. He looked at his oatmeal, then shrugged.

"Never mind. I’ve got…this," he moaned, slapping his spoon against the nearly cold hot cereal.

"Very well."

They continued to eat in silence. Rodney gave up on the oatmeal and switched to the fruit. He flipped his laptop open next to him and began sifting through his inbox, while Teyla munched on her waffles and stared out at the ocean.

"Another mercenary attack," he said, clicking on the most recent email, marked urgent.

"Which planet?"

Rodney scanned through the body of the email. He felt his back and shoulders ripple with tension. "Um…Dabor? M44-669."

He glanced up to see the tension he felt reflected in the set of Teyla’s mouth. Her eyes flickered at the planet’s name, and a second later, she relaxed.

"I do not know that planet."

"Me neither," he said. "Looks like…here it is. Sergeant Tillman made first contact a few months ago, classified them as uninterested in any trade agreements with us until their spring harvest came in. Guess that means no spring harvest. They burned the three villages closest to the gate to the ground, as well as all of the farm fields. Bastards."

Teyla shivered, dropping her fork onto her plate. She still had one whole waffle left, but she sat back, holding a cup of tea, and sipped at it slowly as she returned to staring out at the ocean. "I wish we knew who they were, or had some means to stop them."

"I heard Lorne talking about them. He doesn’t think they stay on any one planet for long, which is going to make catching them insanely difficult." He blinked away the image his mind had supplied of the burned out villages, and the rest of his appetite dropped away. "Any plans today?" he asked, changing the subject. He clicked through four more emails, barely reading the subject line.

"I have a sparring session planned with a few of the Athosians living on the base. I would like to postpone it, but they will not be here on Atlantis for much longer and I should take advantage of the opportunity."

She sounded like she was trying really hard to talk herself into it—even Rodney managed to pick up on her reticence, and by his own admission, he wasn’t exactly the most astute when it came to observing and understanding emotions, particularly in women.

He felt his cheeks flush and he jerked his eyes back to his computer screen. Emails. He was reading emails. _What was this one from Radek about?_

"Any more luck on the weapon the Ancestors talked about?"

He shook his head. "Nothing, but I haven’t had much time to look. We really need to head back there, investigate a little more."

"It’s on the schedule," John announced, plopping down next to him. He had a stack of waffles on his plate, but it wasn’t nearly as obnoxious as the plate Ronon was trying to balance as he eased down in the chair next to Teyla’s.

"My God," Rodney said, looking at Ronon’s tray. There had to be at least a dozen of them.

"He cleaned out the entire bin," John said proudly. "Pissed Chuck off to no end."

"Chuck?" Rodney asked, glancing around.

John cut into his waffle and stuffed them into his mouth before answering. "Theggnnsshn."

Rodney stared, waiting for John’s garbled answer to filter through his brain into something that made sense. It did not.

"The gate technician. Chuck," John repeated. "He was behind us in line."

"Oh, right." He eyed the colonel’s bandaged hand. "Are you the reason we aren’t going back to the outpost right away?"

John’s expression soured immediately and he glared at his injured palm. "I’ll be back on duty in a couple of days." He held up his fork. "And before you ask, I’ve already requested returning to the outpost be our first mission."

Rodney blinked in surprise, glancing at Ronon and Teyla. Ronon was devouring his waffles like a man half-starved, but he glanced up and shot Rodney a wide grin. Crap. The desserts. He dropped his head a second later and returned to his food, bits of waffles flying off his tray as he ate. It was seriously like watching a cartoon. Teyla scooted away from him, avoiding the spray.

"Good," he finally answered, tearing his eyes away from Ronon eating.

John shot him a satisfied grin then turned his attention to his own breakfast. "May I?" he asked Teyla, reaching for her cup of leftover fruit syrup.

Rodney glared one last time at his now definitely cold, lumpy cereal and shoved it toward the end of the table, out of sight and smell range. He focused back on his laptop, clicking on the next email. Radek. More successful power upgrade simulations. He was pushing to move onto the actual trials now, to start converting the naquadah generators. He sighed, rubbing at his forehead.

"Is something wrong?"

He shrugged at Teyla’s question. "No, it’s just…these power upgrades are fairly complex and Radek wants to start implementing them. The simulations look good but…" He scratched his head, re-reading the results of the latest simulations. He knew he’d been pushing to move the trials to the next stage, but now he wasn’t so sure. If they rushed, they could blow up half the city.

Maybe not half, but one of the buildings at least. Ronon came up for air, and he, Teyla, and John started discussing something about sparring moves. Karate chops or leg sweeps something-or-other. He pulled up the data from the very first upgrade simulation and started running the numbers again. Visions of planets and solar systems exploding because of a miscalculation on his part danced through his mind.

They had to be sure before they started messing with the power on Atlantis. Absolutely sure.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Four days later, John was released back to active duty, despite Carson’s grumblings that his hand wasn’t healing as fast as it should be. The skin was closed, however, and John brushed off the pain Teyla knew it was still causing him. Less than 24 hours after that, the team was trudging back through the jungle, weaving along the narrow trail they’d followed a week earlier back to the outpost.

Teyla ducked under a large leaf, feeling beads of sweat soak into her shirt. She’d been happy to return to their regular schedule of missions, and knowing there weren’t any hostile natives waiting for them here was even more reassuring. They knew what to expect. They knew how far they had to walk, how hot it was, and what they’d find at the end of the trail.

A sound off the path had her snapping her attention to the thick underbrush. She stared at the dark shadows, searching for movement, but a few seconds passed and nothing happened.

"What is it?" John asked, coming up beside her.

"I heard a noise," she said, keeping her voice low and her eyes trained on the source of the sound. John leaned forward, his gaze focused on the same area.

Finally, Teyla shook her head. "There is nothing there. Just the sounds of the jungle."

"Are you sure?"

She shrugged. What else could it be? It was a jungle, and while there were no large predators in their vicinity, there had to be plenty of smaller creatures all around them. She turned back to the trail and continued walking, hearing John ushering Rodney ahead of him.

"I don’t remember walking this far before," Rodney piped up, out of breath. "Are you sure we’re heading in the right direction?"

"I’m sure," Ronon huffed up ahead of him. He sounded irritated, but he could have just been tired. As Teyla rounded a large tree in front of her, she saw Ronon standing a dozen feet ahead, looking sweaty and exhausted.

As predicted, Ronon had been charged with carrying the bulk of the power generator, and the weight of it in the bag on his back was apparent. John had alternated with him, switching the generator bag for a backpack full of additional equipment and supplies, but there had been no lightweight options for them. Hers and Rodney’s bags were weighed down with supplies as well. She normally liked taking a planet by foot, walking in amongst the trees and grass and bushes, the animals and insects, the sights and smells. It was how her people had traveled the galaxy for generations. Today was one of those rare moments when she would have vastly preferred the jumper.

She waited, expecting Rodney to argue further about their direction or the time it was taking, but he was quietly slogging through the underbrush behind her once again. "I believe we are walking slower as well, because of our heavy bags," she said, shooting a glance over her shoulder. Rodney was red-faced and sweating, breathing hard enough that spit was flying from his lips with every harsh exhale.

Behind him, John stopped and leaned against a tree, wiping his arm across his forehead. The bandage on his hand looked frayed and dirty, even though she knew Carson had rewrapped it just before they’d left. He blinked out the sweat and dirt dripping into his eyes as he pulled a canteen from his belt and took a long swig. "Break time," he called out. "Five minutes."

"Thank God," Rodney whispered, letting his bag slide to the ground and plopping down next to it.

They sat in silence, but the oppressive heat and humidity of the jungle continued to sap at their strength. Teyla refilled her canteen, then the others’, from a larger supply in her backpack, lightening her load by a couple of pounds. It was hardly noticeable when they picked up and headed back down the trail.

By the time they reached the outpost, the backpack was digging into her shoulders. She was amazed she still had it; she’d been tempted to drop it along the trail and leave it behind more than a few times in the last hour. They piled into the darkness of the entry tunnel and breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"At least it’s a little cooler in here," Rodney said, his voice bouncing down the corridor. They retraced the same path they’d followed before, reaching the central control room with its two branching hallways a few minutes later.

Before long, Rodney had set up the generator, connecting it to Ancient power lines behind a couple of panels he’d had John and Ronon pry off. He flipped a switch, and the round room fluttered to life, the dark tunnels on either side of him suddenly filled with clear, almost blue light.

"Power!" he announced proudly.

"Lights," John said, smiling.

Ronon had stepped a few feet into one of the corridors, and he waved a hand in front of the first sealed door. It slid open with a soft hiss, expelling a puff of stale air.

"Doors," he added.

After some debate, they decided to set up a base camp in the original open room, which John dubbed the "Green Room." He flexed his hand, grimacing a little as he said this, and Teyla felt a pang of concern for him. He must be fine, or Carson would not have let him back on active duty, but where Ronon and Rodney—and presumably herself—were red and flushed from their hike through the jungle, John was a little more on the paler side.

But to say anything to him, especially in front of the others, would only irritate him at this point. He was prickly about what he felt was too much concern over his welfare. If he was seriously sick or ill, he would say something to her. Of this, she was positive.

They walked quickly through the center of the hall, not wanting to open any of the doors on either side until they’d had a chance to properly explore them and clear them of any potential danger. Once Rodney was situated and happily investigating the equipment in the lab, Teyla, Ronon, and John had piled back out into the hallway.

"Okay, let’s split up. Ronon, you take the rest of the rooms along this hallway, and Teyla and I will head over to the other one. Keep in contact, call if you find anything, don’t touch anything you shouldn’t. You know the drill."

Ronon grunted in reply and turned down the hall, walking away from them. John watched him for a few seconds, then turned the other direction, and Teyla joined him. He wiped still beading sweat from his forehead with the dirty bandage on his hand.

"Are you alright?"

"Huh?" John asked, flicking a glance toward her before concentrating again on the hallway. "Fine. Why?"

Teyla shrugged, not sure what she expected him to say. They walked a few more steps before another thought crossed her mind. "Have you noticed anything…different about Ronon?"

John scratched his head, pondering. "What do you mean?"

"I am not sure. He seems…subdued, perhaps? Less energetic than normal."

They were still walking, and as they crossed a slight indent in the wall on John’s side, the door slid open. He flinched, stumbling away from it and bringing up his weapon. Teyla felt her heart pound as they waited for something to come flying out at them, but the hall and room were silent. John crept forward, peering through the door. A second later, his shoulders and back relaxed and tension visibly flowed out of him.

"Empty," he said. He backed up until he was far enough away for the door to slide closed, then continued down the hall.

Teyla jogged to catch up to him, about to bring up Ronon again when John beat her to it.

"I don’t know about Ronon. Rodney seems quieter than usual, though, which is both refreshing and a little unsettling."

Now that he mentioned it, she nodded, remembering moments in the last few days where she’d expected Rodney to unleash or rant or yell and he had not.

"What about me? Do I seem different?" John asked, interrupting her thoughts.

The question sounded lighthearted enough, but when she glanced up, she saw that he was watching her, looking nervous and tentative, almost like he was afraid she would say yes. That in and of itself was odd coming from John. The answer to his question was yes, he did seem different—more skittish or anxious than normal—but the look on his face wiped out any impulse she had to tell him so.

"No, I do not think so," she said instead. The relief in his expression was palpable and she was glad she’d held back.

"Good," he said, giving her a small smile. They crossed the round room with the generator humming away and headed toward the other hallway. "If you were wondering, you don’t seem any different either."

She had been wondering, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to ask. She smiled in response, then pulled her focus together as they reached the first door, bracing herself for whatever they might find in this outpost.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

John stood at the entrance of the outpost and stared out at the rain shattering its way through the jungle trees. It was like someone had turned a faucet on above them, the rain coming down in steady, unbroken streams. It ripped through the leaves in its way, shredding them as it pounded into the muddy ground. Already, swirls of muck pooled in the lowest points of the uneven ground. The entrance to the outpost was on higher ground by a couple of feet, and he hoped that would be high enough. The last thing they needed was to get stuck in a flooding outpost.

John heard footsteps behind him, and a moment later, Ronon stood next to him, staring out at the storm from the protection of the entrance tunnel. The rain had not lessened in its intensity. In fact, it seemed to be getting worse. The sky turned another shade darker and John stepped back.

"Guess we’re not going anywhere for a few hours."

Ronon grunted in response. Water began streaming over the door of the outpost, causing a virtual waterfall over the entrance and blocking their sight of the jungle outside.

They made their way back to the Green Room, where Rodney was still busy picking away at machines scattered around him. Teyla sat nearby, her expression blank as they entered the room. John watched her eyes focus as she noticed them, and he wondered what she had been so deep in thought about.

"We’re here for a few hours at least," John announced. "Maybe the rest of the night."

Teyla nodded and leaned back in her chair. Rodney glanced up at him, looked around the room as if assuring himself he wasn’t alone, then went back to typing on his laptop. The conversation John had had earlier with Teyla came back to him. Was she right about being worried? Subdued definitely fit all of their demeanors at the moment, but they’d had a long hike through a hot jungle carrying heavy bags, and they’d spent the last two hours searching the outpost.

And Rodney was in tech heaven. That tended to shut him up fast, especially with no one around to understand even half of what he was working on.

It was probably nothing. He shrugged off the mental debate and dragged the back of his hand across his forehead. He winced at the ache that flared in his palm. The broken table that he’d cut it on was still in the room, pushed up against a far wall and out of the way of any more accidents.

Rain was falling steadily into the room through the hole in the wall and ceiling on the far side. After some prodding, he got Teyla out of her chair and Rodney off the floor, and the four of them transferred their gear and most of the equipment Rodney wanted to examine into an adjoining, dry room. The "Blue Room," John dubbed, earning only vague smiles and a few grunts as he’d messed with the door control and jammed it open.

Maybe they were subdued, but John was too tired to figure it out. It was early evening by the time they finished, and the team sat down to eat their MRE dinners. It was not that they were always a talkative bunch, but they did genuinely enjoy each other’s company and they usually chatted more. He studied the others’ expressions as they ate. Rodney looked as tired as John felt, while Ronon and Teyla both looked lost in thought.

"I say we camp out here for the night," he said, finally breaking the quiet bubble that had settled around them. "Head back in the morning, after the storm."

"Assuming the storm is gone," Rodney said, a hint of his usual sarcastic self in the tone.

"Right," John agreed. "We’ve got shelter and enough supplies to wait for the rain to stop. Who wants first shift on guard duty tonight."

"Me," Rodney answered quickly.

"I will take second shift."

"Third," Ronon grunted.

John nodded. He looked at his watch and saw that it was barely past 1900 hours Atlantis time. He rubbed fresh sweat off his face, wondering if he should try to catch a few hours of shuteye, given how exhausted he felt.

"I’m going to walk around some more," Ronon announced, standing up and tossing his empty MRE packets in a corner.

"May I join you?" Teyla asked. She stood up, shoving her own trash into a bag and then collecting Ronon’s. Ronon grunted, and within moments, it was just Rodney and John.

They stared at each other for a moment and then Rodney pushed himself to his knees. "Work," he said, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the Ancient equipment.

"Right," John grunted. He stuck his and Rodney’s MRE containers into their makeshift trashbag, then dug through his backpack, pulling out a thin pad and sleeping bag. The outpost was cooler, but its temperature was relative to the excessive heat and humidity of the jungle outside. It was still plenty warm inside. The sleeping bag, though, would provide a little more padding on the solid floor. They’d found plenty of rooms that looked like they used to be sleeping quarters, but pillows, blankets, and mattresses had long since degraded away. John stretched out on top of his bag, letting heavily eyelids slip shut immediately.

* * *

PART 3

John stared at the stargate, alone in the empty gate room. There were moments when the immensity of the device struck him, and he looked up in awe at the size of the ring and the power it held, propelling him and others across the galaxy on a daily basis. It was incredible, but it was also easy to forget amongst the heyday of daily survival in Pegasus.

Other people streamed into the room, lining up behind him. Marines. They were armed to the teeth, their faces set in the grim expression of the battle hardened and battle weary. He glanced down at his own uniform and saw that he was wearing only his BDU pants and a t-shirt. No vest, no weapons. No shoes even. He spun around, wondering where his gear had gone.

"What’s happened?" he heard someone ask.

Where the hell was his gear? Why would he be lined up to go offworld without any gear? His heart began to pound. Guns. Knife. Vest. Shoes. He needed his stuff.

"Doctor Castillo and her team missed their check in. With the recent attacks, I didn’t want to take any chances. I sent Lieutenant Yeboah’s team."

Yeboah. And Castillo. He remembered this. They’d lost contact with Castillo, then sent Yeboah’s team, then gotten a frantic call about a firefight before losing contact with them.

"They were attacked the second they came through the gate. We haven’t been able to get a hold of them since," someone else said.

"Damn," came a muttered reply from somewhere else.

John found his running shoes at the bottom of the steps and he sat down, thrusting his foot in as fast as he could. More people filled the gateroom. They were going on a mission—he was supposed to lead this mission.

"Is it the mercenaries?"

It was, but they didn’t know that yet. This was their first encounter, the first attack. John got his shoes laced up and then spotted his vest. He grabbed it, feeling the heavy weight of his P90 swing from the clip on the front. He pushed his way to the front as he slid into his vest, then struggled to get the zipper up. Sweat dampened his armpits, beads of it dripped down his back. Around him, he heard the others checking and double-checking their weapons, preparing for a rescue mission.

But it wouldn’t be a rescue. He jerked his head up at the sound of the first chevron locking into place, and his heart rate tripled. He knew how this ended. This had already happened.

"No," he choked out, but he was breathing too fast now. Another chevron locked into place, and the gate wavered in front of him. He brought a hand up to his face, the palm and arm thick with bandages.

That wasn’t right. The attack had come before he’d sliced his palm. He hadn’t been injured on this mission. He pushed back the roaring sound filling his ears and focused on slowing his breathing, but his chest was heaving now, and black spots were floating across his vision. He blinked at the sweat stinging his eyes.

The last chevron lit, and the wormhole exploded outward. John flinched at the wave of raw power coming at him, then the bodies rushing past him, toward the blue wall. He shook his head, trying to scream at everyone to stop but not finding enough air to do so.

Yeboah was dead. They’d find his body tied to a tree fifty feet from the gate. Castillo and her team, as well as the rest of the lieutenant’s team would be alive, but badly injured—enough so that most of them would be sent home to Earth to recover. All three of the Marines would be discharged, any chance of returning to Atlantis gone.

John crashed to the floor, his knees banging against the hard surface. He managed to keep himself from falling completely over, but he could feel his body swaying, threatening to topple. The room around him emptied of people, but impossibly, he heard the firefight on the other side of the wormhole. He blinked, trying to bring the gray fuzzy world into focus and suddenly found Carson in front of him, holding his arms and shaking him.

"John?"

"Can’t…c-can’t…" He was still trying to breathe way too fast. He groaned and leaned forward.

"Try to slow your breathing down," Carson said, his voice steady.

"Can’t…" Can’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. His chest jerked in desperation as panic welled up.

"Sheppard, snap out of it!"

John jerked awake and flew up to a sitting position, almost banging his head against Rodney’s. Immediately, he began to list sideways, and he felt hands grab his arms, their fingers digging into his flesh.

"Wha…" he breathed out. He was breathing hard, and his face and hair soaked with sweat.

"You were having a nightmare," Rodney said. He loosened his grip a little, pausing to make sure John didn’t fall over, then let him go completely.

John rubbed at his face, wishing he could scrub the image of the dead lieutenant from his mind. He had been the one to find him, and even after all he’d seen, it had almost sent him puking into the bushes. Rodney shoved a canteen of water into his hands and John drank slowly, hardly noticing how badly his hands were shaking.

Gradually, his breathing slowed down and his hands steadied. Rodney was staring at him—giving him that wide-eyed freaked-out look John had seen too many times in their years together in Pegasus. He handed back the canteen.

Rodney blinked, then capped the canteen and set it aside. "Um…do you want…"

"It was just a nightmare," John said quietly. His voice was hoarse, and his throat felt raw. Had he screamed? That might explain the look Rodney was giving him.

Rodney didn’t push. He nodded and slid back to his work. John stood up, stretching out tight muscles. He’d been asleep for a couple of hours and he still felt wiped out, but there was no way he would be going to sleep again anytime soon.

"Ronon and Teyla?"

Rodney glanced up. "Still looking around."

"Okay."

He slipped into his vest, zipping it up easily. It had been difficult in the dream, but this wasn’t a dream—this wasn’t a nightmare. They were exploring a long-abandoned outpost full of dead and broken equipment until the rain stopped. He glanced at his watch. It was still relatively early in the night. He’d needed to be up and about, to walk around and shake off the remnants of the nightmare.

"I’m going to go check on the storm," he said. He strode toward the door, not waiting for a reply.

The light of the hallways hummed steadily, and it wasn’t until John passed through the round room and walked the short length to the entrance of the outpost that he realized it was pitch black outside. He glanced at his watch, wondering how Atlantis time and this world’s time matched up. It had been close, he thought—within a few hours of each other. They’d measured it during the first mission here but now he couldn’t remember.

He stood at the door and peered into the darkness. Rain was still pattering the trees and bushes at a steady pace, but it didn’t seem to be the outright deluge of earlier. Maybe the storm was slowing down and they’d be able to head home soon. He shivered despite the heat, suddenly wanting very much to be back home in Atlantis.

A snapping twig out in the darkness had his heart rate ramping up, and he brought his P90 up instinctively. His ears strained to pick out any sounds beyond the white noise of the drumming rain.

 _Snap._

There. Again. Something was out there. He licked his lips, trying to work some moisture back into his mouth. He reached over carefully to flip the flashlight on his P90 on, and he jerked it quickly toward the source of the sound. The beam lit up the base of a tree, and a large leaf fluttered up and down against the rain and wind.

He caught a flash of movement on the edge of the beam, and he jerked the light toward it, but again, there was nothing. Just the jungle and the storm. Another snapping branch sounded far off on the right-hand side. John flicked the safety off on his weapon and brought the gun around.

The heat was oppressive, and he was breathing far too heavily to shoot with any kind of pinpoint accuracy, but a spray of bullets from a P90 was damned effective. Sweat dripped down his forehead, into his eyes, and he fought the urge to wipe it away. He should radio Teyla and Ronon. They were good at spotting things in the trees and in the darkness—better than him. He heard a rustle of leaves to his left and he swung his light toward it.

The rational part of his brain told him he was hearing nothing more than the sounds of the storm blowing through the jungle’s vegetation, and yet… If he was planning an attack, he would use the cover of the storm to sneak up on his adversary. In this darkness, with this level of noise, he’d be at the door of the facility before the enemy even knew someone was coming.

Was that how the mercenaries worked? On all of the planets they had attacked, there’d been no warning, no signal of impending danger. This planet might be uninhabited, but the mercenaries somehow managed to sneak up on everyone, including highly trained Marines.

The image of Yeboah’s body flashed back through his mind and he shook his head. His heart was ramming against his ribs now, and he felt his stomach tighten in sudden nausea. Another snap and rustle sounded just past the beam of his flashlight. He could feel their eyes on him now, watching his movements, biding their time. With a sudden flush of panic, he flipped the flashlight off, but all that did was stop him from seeing the enemy outside. He was still framed in the lighted doorway of the outpost.

John was raising a hand to his radio earbug to call for backup when he heard a scraping sound directly above him. He jerked his head up, knowing instinctively something was there. That had definitely not been the sound of rain. He was raising his P90 when he saw a blur of movement coming toward him, a rotting stench filling his nostrils.

He heard an animal hiss in his ear a split second before the dark shape slammed into his face and neck. He yelled, tightening his finger on the trigger and letting a stream of bullets into the dark jungle. The sound was deafening, echoing up and down the hallway. He was on the ground without realizing he’d fallen, the echoes of gunfire still pummeling his eardrums. He dropped his P90 and used his arms to grab at the thing digging into neck and head.

" _Sheppard!_ "

Ronon’s voice sounded close, and John connected it with the radio piece still in his ear at the same time as he got a hold of thick fur and pulled. Flames raked the side of his face and neck where the animal’s claws had dug in, and he screamed at the sudden, burning agony. The animal was hissing madly, squirming to get out of John’s grasp and digging its claws into his shoulder and chest, piercing flesh unprotected by his vest. Blood, hot and oozing, welled up from the scrapes and dripped across his skin.

He lifted his head in time to see the animal shake free of his grasp, then arch its back, ready to pounce. It was the size of a house cat, with short thick legs, long nails, and a face that looked like it had been smashed by a board. The thing bared its teeth and leapt toward John’s face—

Then disappeared out into the darkness of the jungle. John caught a glimpse of Ronon’s foot as he booted the creature away, and then he dropped his head back to the ground. The pain in his neck and face was growing, and he rolled to the side, closing his eyes. It felt like someone was holding a blow torch to his face, and he started to gag at the agony.

"Sheppard, buddy," Ronon was muttering, one hand on his arm as John threw up the remains of his dinner.

He heard another pair of feet running toward them, and he tensed. Mercenaries? He would choose to attack now, when one man was down and the others were distracted. A second later, he heard Teyla’s high-pitched voice, asking what had happened, and then another set of hands on his head, asking him if he was alright.

He let them help him up, and by the time he was firmly on his feet, some of the pain had dampened down a little. Teyla wanted to take care of the cuts right there, but he refused. The gaping darkness of the jungle—and all of the dangers it held unseen—was scraping his nerves raw. They needed to get out of sight, regroup.

 _Hide._

"Blue Room," he choked out, stumbling away from the entrance. They could hide in the Blue Room, maybe even seal the door shut. If anyone was out there—and John was sure they were—there was little he and his team could do to fight them off. They were outmanned.

Yes, outmanned. And outgunned. The mercenaries were ruthless and clearly had the ability to take out entire villages without leaving a trace of themselves behind. He walked faster, feeling Teyla’s arm on his. Was she steadying him? Or slowing him down? He wasn’t sure. But they were following him. He walked faster. He would get them to the Blue Room, where Rodney was, and then they’d be okay. Rodney could seal the doors, stop any of the mercenaries from getting to them.

He could feel his neck stiffening up in pain, but he didn’t dare slow down. Safety first, then he’d let Teyla treat his wounds.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"What the hell happened out there?"

"It’s nothing."

"Nothing? Nothing. How can…it’s not…"

"Calm down, McKay."

Teyla watched Rodney shoot Ronon a glare, but the behest to calm down was hardly necessary. Rodney was upset but not flying off the handle. Teyla guided John over to his sleeping bag—where he sank down to the floor without any prompting—but she kept an eye on Rodney the entire time.

The scientist glanced between all of them, then finally stumbled backward and buried himself in his laptop. Ronon leaned against the wall, glancing out into the hallway, and Teyla noted the fatigue in the slump of his shoulders and the lines in his face. She glanced back at Rodney, and the soft glow from his screen made the dark circles under his eyes stand out. John leaned forward, resting the uninjured side of his head on his hand and sighed. He made no move to staunch the flow of blood from the claw marks in his face and neck, but his eyes were squeezed shut and his jaw clenched against the pain.

A shot of fear pierced through her at the sight of her teammates, and she shook off the lethargy that seemed to swamp over her every movement. There was definitely something wrong with her teammates. Maybe even herself, although she felt fine. She reached over for her bag and dragged it to her side, then dug through it to pull out the first aid kit.

The blood was still oozing out of John’s cuts and soaking into his shirt, and the sight of it twisted her stomach into knots. She looked away, swallowing quickly. With her eyes closed, the iron stench of blood tripled and she suddenly imagined blood pumping out of John’s body with every heart beat, covering her and anything nearby as he bled out. The claws of the animal would have been long and sharp to cut so deeply. Razor sharp. The image in her mind warped as the blood cleared, revealing mangled flesh and white bone.

"Teyla?" John’s tired voice broke through her thoughts, splintering the image.

She took a deep breath and opened her eyes, and the cuts on his face and neck did not look nearly as horrific as the image she’d built in her mind.

"This will hurt," she whispered.

John had lifted his head a little to look up at her, but now he nodded and settled it back into his palm. She used a bottle of water and clean cloth to wipe away most of the blood, careful to not rub the cuts directly. There were two of them on his face, running from his hairline to the edge of his jaw. Three more gouges ran along side his neck all the way to his collar bone. The claw marks on his neck were not as deep as she’d initially assumed, but already they looked red and enflamed.

John sat still through her ministrations, but he couldn’t completely mask the moans of pain as she worked. His knuckles were white and his jaw was clenched so tight, she worried he might break a tooth. She felt a lump build in her throat, and she had to turn away when he hissed at the bandages she pressed against the cuts.

"I am sorry," she whispered, fighting back the sudden urge to cry. John said nothing, and the silence cut into her chest. She wished she didn’t have to inflict more pain on him, and maybe she should have just left it alone.

She shook her head. No, that wasn’t right. She knew field medicine—knew what she was supposed to do in this kind of situation. Why did she suddenly doubt herself? She felt a tear slide down her cheek, but John had his eyes closed, Rodney was focused on his computer screen, and Ronon was leaning out into the hallway again.

She reached into her bag to grab tape, using the movement to wipe away the tear with her other hand. She took a couple of deep breaths, fighting to regain control of her emotions, and when she leaned back to tape the bandages down, she was able to ignore the slight shaking of her hands, to write it off as the aftereffects of an adrenaline rush.

"There," she said.

John didn’t move or respond. She found a couple of packets of Ibuprofen and had him swallow the medicine, then pushed him onto his side to rest. He looked exhausted—even more so than before. John relented without a fight, and Teyla breathed her own sigh of relief when he fell sleep almost immediately.

"He okay?" Ronon asked. He was standing by the door now, shifting his weight anxiously from foot to foot.

"For now, yes. The cuts were not as deep as I feared."

"Good. Gonna walk the halls, make sure there are no more animals around." He left, not waiting for a response.

Rodney sat up, looking at the empty doorway where Ronon had disappeared to where she was kneeling next to Sheppard. "Animal?"

"Small animal," she said, but she wasn’t sure. She’d barely caught a glimpse of it before Ronon had kicked it out into the dark jungle.

"The storm?"

"Still raining."

Rodney nodded, looked around the room with a sigh, then hunched back over his laptop.

Teyla waited for him to say something else. The short, terse comments were disquieting, but she had no idea how to draw him into conversation. Getting Rodney to talk had never been a problem before. She watched him rub at his eyes and noted again how tired he looked.

"Would you like some water?"

Rodney glanced up and gave her a small smile. "Sure."

Relieved at finding a way to interact with him, she grabbed her canteen and stood. She handed the water to him as she peered at his laptop, trying to decipher what he was working on. Distracted, she let go of the canteen before he had a hold of it and it crashed to the floor.

"I am so sorry!" she yelped as Rodney jumped in surprised, toppling his laptop.

He jerked his computer up off the floor and into the air, out of the way of the growing puddle. He scooted backward, using his feet to slide away from her.

"No, it’s okay," he breathed out. He set the laptop to the side then cast around for something to wipe the water up with.

Teyla felt the lump of emotion build again in her throat, and she swallowed desperately against it. She did not want to cry—not in front of Rodney. "I don’t know how that happened. I thought…"

"No, no, it was my fault. I wasn’t looking."

Her heart beat faster. She’d seen Rodney explode at the smallest things, particularly around Ancient technology. She glanced at the door. She wanted to run down the hall, to get away from Rodney’s anger and violent temper, of the rant she knew normally followed such an incidence of clumsiness around him.

And yet he wasn’t speaking. Or angry. He had found a napkin from somewhere and was trying to mop up the puddle of water around him. John shifted in his sleep then settled down again.

"It’s okay," Rodney said again, his attention focused on scrubbing the floor. "It’s okay."

She backed up, putting some distance between Rodney and his non-anger, and John and his bleeding gouges. She leaned against the doorframe and peered out into the hallway. Ronon was nowhere to be seen.

"Have you…" she started, then cleared her throat when the words caught in her chest and came out garbled. "Have you found out what the Ancients were doing here?"

Rodney nodded. He gave up on mopping and moved his laptop closer to John’s sleeping form, away from the water. He settled back down and tapped a few keys. "Weapons research."

"That is good," she said, but she wasn’t sure if it was. Did they really need more powerful weapons? Already they were surrounded by death in this galaxy. Why add more to that potential for murder and destruction?

She heard a whimpering cry echo down the hall, so faint it was almost inaudible. She froze, straining her ears. Had that been Ronon? Or another animal like the one that had attacked John? A few moments passed in silence, and she was ready to write off the sound as a figment of her imagination when it came again.

It sounded like someone crying—a soft, high-pitched moan. It couldn’t have been Ronon. An animal then. She stepped into the hall, straining. Rodney didn’t seem to notice her departure so she padded quietly down the hall. When the sound echoed toward her, she felt her heart seize in her chest.

What if the animal that had attacked John had been a baby? What if its mother was now looking for whoever had inflicted harm on her young? What if it came looking for them? If she was smart, she would go back to the Blue Room, seal the door, prepare a defense. What was she doing walking toward it?

She thought of the blood on John’s face and neck, and it occurred to her that if the creature was seeking revenge, or even if it was just hungry, it could probably smell the blood. It would follow the scent like a sea creature pouncing on injured prey. The safest place, then, was not in the Blue Room but in another room, as far away from John as possible. She took another few steps down the hallway.

Perhaps that was where Ronon had gone to. He had reached the same conclusion and was hiding in one of the many rooms along either hallway. She should follow him—he was a strong fighter and she’d be safer behind him if anything attacked. She walked a little faster. If Ronon was trying to get away, he was probably in the other corridor, in the farthest room in that direction.

That was where she would go. The cry sounded a little louder and she clamped her own jaw shut to stop herself from echoing it. She needed to be quiet, to hide. Her survival depended on it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

After his second time through the entire outpost, Ronon could no longer bring himself to venture down the hallway toward the entrance. He crept into the round room, glancing around to make sure no animals had come in. There was dirt and leaves strewn across the floor, tiny footprints evidence that more than one creature had taken refuge from the rain in here.

He pictured the animal that had attacked Sheppard, its claws extended and teeth gnashing and it dove toward the soft flesh of his friend’s face. He’d been lucky, kicking at it. He’d only gotten a glimpse of Sheppard before he’d lunged forward, but he’d seen the bright red gleam of blood. How much would his clothing have protected him from those fangs and claws if he hadn’t managed to kick the beast into the darkness.

Thunder clapped above him, echoing down the hall and he tensed. He stared down the entrance tunnel, straining for the sound of danger. When lightning flashed, it burned into his wide-open eyes, and he blinked at the afterimage of the entrance at the far end of the hall. He stumbled back the way he’d come, pressing his fingers into his eyes.

It took a moment before his mind caught up to what he’d seen in the brief second of light. It was still raining, but there’d been no sign of animals running toward him. He took a deep breath and began walking to the far end of the hall, away from the round room. Sheppard had dubbed this one Hallway 2, while the Green and Blue Rooms where’d they camped out had been named Hallway 1.

Hallway 2 was longer. It would take him farther away from the entrance. He quickened his pace, wincing at a bruise on his foot that ached with every step. He’d kicked that beast hard, sent it flying into the jungle. He could still remember the feel of it against his foot and ankle, thick rough fur against his pants and boots, soft ribs and belly caving in to the force of his kick.

He stumbled to a halt, overcome with sudden nausea. Had he killed it? He pressed a hand to his stomach and leaned forward. When he glanced down at his foot, he saw a couple of dark smudges.

"Blood," he whispered.

The closest room looked like it had once been someone’s living quarters. A bed, desk, and drawers were built into the walls themselves. He flung himself to the corner of the room, gagging as he moved, and dropped to his knees just as he began throwing up. Several minutes passed before his gut settled down again. He pushed away from the wall, but his arms and legs were shaking too much for him to walk very far. He eased down on the bed and pressed his hands to his face.

He had killed it. He must have. He flashed again to the creature—yellow eyes like a Wraith, slits in its face where its nose would be. He’d seen tiny needle teeth in its open mouth, and two longer fangs on each side, curling forward like the blade of one of his knives. He reached for that knife, unsheathing it from his boot. The metal glinted in the bluish light of the facility.

It was the exact shape as the fangs on the creature that had attacked Sheppard. He was torn between disgust at the violence required to get it away from them and fear at what it might have done had his kick not been aimed perfectly. His stomach clenched again and he wished he had some water with him. Slowly, he extended his arm and swished the knife blade back and forth. It was designed to eviscerate, cut through skin and muscle, inflict torturous pain before his victim—turned inside out—bled to death.

He groaned, tossing the knife across the room. He could still feel its weight in his hand though, still remember how easy it was to handle. Perfect balance. That’s what he’d thought the first time he’d picked it up. Perfect, deadly balance. He’d killed a lot of Wraith with that blade…

The image of a Wraith rose up in his mind. Ronon’s fist tightened until his knuckles bleached and his fingers began to tingle with numbness. The creature in his mind flung itself forward, and Ronon screamed.

The sound was so loud, so startling, that he jumped up. The knife lay on the floor a few feet away, taunting him. The memory of the Wraith died down, but his heart was double timing it, adrenaline pumping through his veins.

He was alone. There were no Wraith, no creatures, no enemies. Just him and his team. He pulled out the rest of his knives and threw them into the corner of the room, close to where the curved blade had landed, then swallowed at the sight of all of those sharp edges glowing with menace. He heard a scream, but this time it was not his own. A memory of a Wraith screaming as Ronon had impaled him.

He shook his head, letting the sound die out. It wasn’t real. His heart started to beat frantically as his stomach twisted in on itself, gory images of dead Wraith bayoneting themselves on his knives flashing through his mind. Their ghostly images flung themselves forward, and he sliced through their intestines, their necks, their chests. Ronon gasped, smelling the hot iron stench of blood.

He’d fallen back to the bed, but he jumped up again and crossed the room in three steps. He yanked open one of the drawers built into the wall and threw the curved knife into it. As he slammed it shut, the screaming Wraith faded from his mind. He stood there, breathing, and glanced down at himself, making sure none of their blood was on him.

"Not real," he whispered.

There was no blood. No sign of the Wraith other than the necklace he wore around his neck. His stomach churned at the sight, and he ripped it off, opening the drawer for a half second to throw the grotesque jewelry collar in with the knife. He continued to pant heavily for a moment, willing his body to relax.

It wasn’t working. Groaning, his gaze settled on the other knives spread out across the floor. He was going to throw up again. The nausea was already burning its way back up his throat. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. It took several long breaths before he finally fought the urge to be sick back down, and then he straightened up, one hand pressing against his rebellious gut.

With shaking hands, he gathered up the rest of his knives and tossed them into the drawer, out of sight.

He should go back to the others, make sure they were safe. The nausea was hovering in the back of his throat. He needed water, needed to lie down. Sheppard was injured, and now he was getting sick. The storm was ripping the world to pieces outside. He stumbled out into the hallway just as thunder roared and shuddered over the building. Fear lashed out at him, wrapping icy tendrils across his body. In order to go back to the others, he’d have to walk through the round room, past the tunnel that led to the entrance just a few dozen steps farther. Another blast of thunder echoed around him, the sound sharp and ringing in his ears.

He assumed it was thunder. What if they were under attack? What if that had been an explosion from a Wraith ship? He pushed away from the wall, scanning the hallway. He had to run, he had to get out of here. This hallway led nowhere, and to stay here would mean certain death. His heart pounded at the thought, feeling like it was crawling up the back of his throat.

He found another room, full of equipment. Thick dust overlay everything. He weaved through the debris, heading toward the back and looking for a place to hide.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Teyla crawled into an alcove in the farthest room of the longest hallway. She had not found Ronon, but she’d stumbled into the wall when she’d entered this room, and inadvertently plunged the small area into darkness. She’d screamed, terrified at first of what she could not see, of what could creep up on her without her knowing. She’d fumbled at the wall, searching for the light switch and found nothing.

She’d found the door again, though, and when she stepped in front of it, it had slid open, letting in enough light into the room for her to see there was no danger. She’d spied the alcove a second later and darted toward it, reaching it just as the door slid shut and cast the room back into pitch black.

She wrapped her arms around her knees, curling into the smallest ball possible. With three walls pressing up against her, she felt safe, and she shuddered in relief. There was only one way that someone or something could attack her now. There was no safer place than this, protected on all but one side.

 _All but one._

The thought nagged. An attacker only needed one way to reach her to kill her. Her breathing hitched and she peeled her eyes open, searching the darkness. She saw nothing, not even the hand in front of her face. She cowered back, wishing the alcove had a door.

Her mind flashed to some of the debris in the room. There was a small table somewhere close. She slipped out of the alcove before she could talk herself out of it, crawling close enough to the door to trigger it to open. Light spilled in, and she flinched, prepared for something horrendous to screech through the door and devour her alive…

"There is nothing," she whispered, but she heard the doubt in her own voice. She did not know that there was nothing. Where were the others? Had they already been taken?

She saw the table just a few feet from her and she took in the space between it and her and the alcove, calculating the path she would have to take to reach safety. With a whimper, she rushed forward, grabbing the table and dragging it back to her safe place. The door slid closed, cutting off the light before she reached it, but she fumbled through the darkness and found the alcove a few seconds later. She climbed into it again, then flipped the table up so that its surface formed a fourth wall in front of her, blocking off the last side of vulnerability.

She let go a deep shuddering breath as she realized she was safe, cocooned in darkness and metal. She dropped her head in exhaustion as tension unwound from her back and neck.

"Safe," she whispered.

In the darkness, she heard the rumble of the storm outside and then a whimpering cry. She slapped a hand over her mouth. Had that been her? She didn’t think so. She felt her body begin to shake again. The sound had come from somewhere in this room, but that was not possible. She had seen nothing in the room. She was sealed in.

Ancestors above! What if she had sealed something in with her? A squeaking cry pierced the refuge she’d built around herself, lashing into her like a whip. Teyla scrunched deeper into the alcove, curling into an even tighter ball and wrapping her arms over her head.

It was no use. Whatever was making the noise had started to wail, its cries reaching her through her barriers, unstoppable. She moved her hands and dug her fingers into her ears to block the sound. She was reminded suddenly of the baby on Atlantis, how it had cried unceasingly into the night. The thing in the room with her was not a baby—not human. The sound it was making was too high-pitched, too grating. Teyla bit her lip against the urge to cry out with it.

It was in pain. Teyla could feel it, carried to her in waves. Should she help it? Her heart beat at the thought, every instinct within her telling her to stay where she was, to run, to hide. Her only chance of survival was to stay hidden from all danger. She dug her fingers deeper into her ears.

A cry broke through her clenched jaw as jagged pieces of her heart shifted deeply inside her. When the creature’s cries suddenly cut off mid-stream, tears streamed down her face, and she lurched forward. For a brief second, concern for the tortured creature had almost driven her out of the alcove, but there was nothing she could do for it. She stayed where she was, crying harder when the creature began its agonized wailing again.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

John woke up to a fiery burn digging into his face and neck, and it only took a few seconds for him to remember the animal that had leapt out of the darkness to attack him. He’d been lucky it hadn’t done more damage. Lucky Ronon had arrived so quickly to kick it away. Lucky it hadn’t been mercenaries staging an assault.

He pushed himself up, groaning when that pulled painfully against enflamed skin and taut muscles. He wanted to curl up in a ball, give himself a shot of morphine and escape the pain. He slid out of his vest and fumbled at the front pockets. No morphine. Where was the morphine? He found a packet of Ibuprofen but little else. It was better than nothing. His canteen, and possibly Ronon’s as well, had been left nearby, and he grabbed one, downing the pills with a quick swallow.

Rodney was the only other person in the room, and he sat with his laptop in front of him and his eyes fixed on the far wall, lost in thought. When John stood up, he tilted his head toward him.

"Oh, hey. You’re awake."

John grunted in reply. He was awake and tired and in pain. He wanted to be asleep. He wanted to go back to that place of dark, painless silence. He rubbed at his forehead, grateful that he had at least stopped sweating in this damn jungle outpost, but he still felt too hot.

"Where are the others?" he asked Rodney, because he wasn’t going to be able to fall back asleep with the way his face and neck were hurting, so he might as well distract himself by talking to Rodney.

Rodney shrugged. "Out, walking around. I don’t know."

John nodded. Rodney had moved to the wall farthest from the door, his arms wrapped around his knees as he looked down at the open laptop at his feet. John pushed himself back to lean against the wall next to Rodney.

"What time is it?"

"Late," came Rodney’s muffled reply.

They sat against the wall in silence. John could hardly turn his head, but he forced himself to lean forward and gesture toward the laptop. "Find anything?"

"Yeah," Rodney said. He continued to sit with his arms around his legs, his chin resting on his knees.

Maybe Rodney had morphine in his vest? He probably did. Rodney hated pain. If anyone carried morphine in their vest, it would be Rodney. He opened his mouth to ask then clamped it shut. Should he ask? It suddenly didn’t seem right to ask, but he really needed it. He brought a hand up to the bandages and felt heat through the gauze. His skin was on fire, the cuts smoldering embers slowly eating away at his flesh.

His breath stuttered in his chest and he closed his eyes. He couldn’t think of that.

"What’s on your laptop?" he asked instead.

"The research the Ancients were doing here."

"You find their weapon?"

"Yeah. Think it did something to us, though."

John nodded. A weapon was good. They needed a weapon. He swallowed, remembering they weren’t supposed to carry morphine in their vests, that it was a controlled substance, that Carson had only allowed enough of them out to fill the first aid kits the teams carried with them. They were supposed to report in to him anytime they used the morphine, so he could replace it. So he could track the drug and track them using the drug.

He brought his hand up to his neck and winced at the growing, stabbing pain. Morphine was for injuries, and he was injured. He needed the morphine. He needed the first aid kit, but Rodney wouldn’t have that.

Who would? Who would? He didn’t have it. The answer came slowly, trudging through the slop of pain hampering his thoughts. Teyla. Teyla was in charge of that stuff. Rodney hated blood.

"Where’s Teyla?" He thought he’d asked that already, but he couldn’t remember what the answer had been.

Rodney shrugged next to him. "Don’t know. She left." He reached out with his foot and pushed the laptop a little farther away from him, then drew his leg back into his body, tightening his arms around them.

John closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then pushed himself to his feet, using the wall to steady himself. His neck screamed at the movement, but he managed to bite back the wail of agony pushing against his teeth. He breathed deeply through the pain, contemplating just sliding back to the ground, but he needed that first aid kit. He needed Teyla.

"Gonna find Teyla," he mumbled.

Rodney shrugged again then lowered his head down and buried his face into his knees. John walked toward the door, stepping over their strewn equipment. The hallway was slightly cooler, and he turned right, heading toward the round room. He used a hand to guide him forward and keep his balance, all of his attention focused on fighting down the throbbing agony in his cuts.

The outpost was silent. Where the hell was Teyla? He crept forward, past the round room and into the second hallway, flinching every time he passed a door and it slid open. He stopped to glance in, then moved on when he found it empty. At the fifth door, he stared at the floor, blinking in confusion. There was no one in the room, but tracks were clearly visible through the dust on the floor. They led into the room but not out.

"Hello?"

The room was big, but it swallowed up the sound of his voice. He took another step farther in and cringed when the door slid shut behind him. They had checked all of these rooms at least once, but he couldn’t remember them now. They all blurred together into dirty rooms furnished with nothing more than the remains of ten thousand year old broken Ancient stuff. He stared down at the footsteps again. Someone had been through here. Recently. No more than an hour or two at the most. Could it have been Teyla? He dug his fingers into his eyes. His skin was on fire. It had to be Teyla. He needed it to be Teyla.

He followed the tracks through the room, around a handful of debris scattered on the floor. They footprints led to a black panel against the far wall. He should tell Rodney about this panel. He shook his head, then yelped, gritting his teeth in pain. Rodney was…something was wrong with Rodney.

He stopped, spinning around in the room. Something was wrong with Rodney. Teyla and Ronon were missing. He fumbled for the radio in his ear and tapped it.

"Ronon, Teyla? Respond."

He waited. He glanced back at his own trail of footprints in the dust, noticing that the ones he’d been following were slightly larger. Ronon’s. Must be. But he wanted it to be Teyla.

"Not true," he whispered. "You want Teyla’s morphine."

And he did. More than ever. The walking had ignited agony until it spread all down his shoulder, back, and chest, and he let his right arm hang at his side.

"Teyla?" he called out again. Something was wrong with Rodney. Teyla wasn’t answering her radio. "Ronon?"

He heard Rodney’s voice in his head, something he had said right before John had wandered off to find Teyla and her morphine and quiet oblivion. A weapon—Rodney had found the weapon, and he thought something had happened to them.

Was that why Rodney was acting so bizarre?

"Guys, come on," John said. "Answer me."

When no answer came, he continued toward the black panel and the larger-than-his footprints. He would find Ronon at least. He could follow his trail, and then they could find Teyla, and she could give John a shot—

"No," he whispered. "No morphine. No drugs."

He had to find his team, get them to safety. He was the team leader; he was responsible. The pain in his face and neck pulsed at the thought, threatening to undo his resolve but he clamped his jaw shut, refusing to yield. He’d beaten pain before. He would do so again, to save his team. If he gave in to it, if he escaped with the morphine, and left his team behind…

"Not gonna happen."

He staggered to the wall, pressing his hands against the black panel, then cried out at the flash of light that enveloped him. When the blind spots faded from his eyes, he spun around, forgetting the aching pain in his head and neck for a moment.

"What the hell?" he called out. He was in another room—much dirtier but also much cooler. The air was stale and musty, but it felt good against his overheated skin. Only a handful of the lights in the room worked, but he could just make out Ronon’s footprints leading away from him.

He was somewhere else. Not in the big room with the black panel. He turned back, moaning when that pulled against the open cuts and taped bandages. There was a black panel here too, but everything looked worse. Wetter, more humid, more mud and mold and vegetation.

Transporter? Had to be. He felt like he was deeper underground. He sucked in a shaky breath. This facility was bigger—there were more unknowns here than they realized, dangers to stumble into and no one would know where to find him. Beads of sweat broke out across his forehead and he dug his fingers into his eyes. His head was pounding at the realization that their situation was much worse than they’d known.

The mercenaries, a voice taunted in the back of his head. They could have infiltrated the base from below and you’d have no idea.

He backed up a step, toward the black panel. He should go back and tell Rodney at least, warn him of the danger. He bit his lip, frowning. Except that something was wrong with Rodney and he had to get Ronon and Teyla, and they had to go home and get fixed. He stared down at the footprints again. Ronon was definitely here, at least.

He forced himself forward, out of the room and into the unknown.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Rodney squirmed. He had pushed his laptop with the toe of his shoe as far away from himself as possible, but that was only a few feet. Only the length of his leg. If he wanted to push it farther, he’d have to get up. He scrunched down, huddling against the wall and grimacing at the stiffness in his butt and back. He didn’t want to get up.

The laptop was open and facing him, still on. It was taunting him. He turned his head away, looking at a distant wall or covering his eyes with this hands or pressing his forehead to his knees, but then that left him blind, unable to see the door leading out into the hallway. He had to watch the door, to know when someone came through it. They were on alien world, after all, and anything could walk through that door.

"We live in a galaxy where life-sucking vampires are as common as… as… as cats and dogs…" he muttered to the room. " _Anything_ could walk into this room."

He glanced around, his eyes raking over John’s sleeping bag, the open first aid kit, their bag of MRE trash. His teammates backpacks were stack against one wall; his was leaning against a piece of Ancient equipment he’d wanted to study.

His eyes trailed the wires leading from the odd box he’d found in the Green Room to his laptop. It was inescapable. No matter where he turned, he always came back to the laptop, the screen stuck on the information he’d pulled up about this outpost.

He shuddered, remembering what he’d found. The outpost had been a research one, its inhabitants pursuing a weapon to combat the Wraith. There was a ‘great weapon’ after all, and he’d found it. He dropped his head to his knees, remembering Doranda. He’d found a weapon there too. He’d also killed a man.

He had also killed his team. They didn’t know it yet, but he had killed them. He had read so when he’d downloaded the information into his laptop. The process had started weeks ago, the first time they’d come here. Was it too late for them? Probably. It was probably too late.

"Too late," he whispered. "Too late."

He jerked his head up again, suddenly remembering the door. He had to watch the door. He had tried to tell John about the weapon, about what he’d done to them, but John—his face half mauled by a wild animal—had stumbled off, looking sick and tired and hurt.

And Teyla and Ronon? They’d disappeared hours ago. Where was everyone going? They’d kept coming and going while he’d worked, leaving him alone with enough equipment to potentially blow up all of Atlantis. What were they thinking?

He shook his head. They weren’t thinking. Because of him. Because he’d messed with stuff he didn’t understand, and activated something in the Green Room, and…

Green Room.

Green light.

He sat up a little straighter. Was that when it had happened? That exact moment? He’d touched the box his laptop was now attached to—accidently when John had fallen and startled him, of course—and then there’d been that green light.

He unfurled his body from the tight ball and reached for his laptop. He could keep reading the information, without turning anything on. Without blowing anything up. He wouldn’t repeat Doranda. He wouldn’t kill another man. Maybe he could even save his teammates before it was too late. He eyed the box a moment, then pulled his computer on to his lap and started typing.

* * *

 

PART 4

John wandered the halls aimlessly, a hand trailing along the wall. The lights in this other part of the outpost worked sporadically, either out completely or flickering in their last throes of death. The glare had amped up his headache enough that its pain melded with the throbbing of his animal cuts. His legs were starting to shake in exhaustion, and the cold air that had felt so good before had disappeared. It was hot again.

Too hot. He stumbled to a halt outside of a pair of open doors on either side of the hallway. Ronon was not answering his radio or John’s shouts, and John was too tired now to keep yelling. He just wanted to lie down. He didn’t even care about the morphine anymore. His legs started to fold, but he braced himself against wall and forced his knees to lock.

The farther he went, the less lights that worked. He glanced in both dark rooms with their open doors but saw nothing. No movement, although there was plenty of furniture and equipment for mercenaries to hide behind. He shivered at that thought, waiting for something to jump out at him. It occurred to him a minute later that he should hold his gun, just in case.

He fumbled at the P90 attached to his vest and held it up. He flipped the flashlight on to scan the rooms, blinking to keep everything in focus. Nothing. Empty. The weapon was heavy to hold up, and he had just enough strength to flip the light off before he let it drop and swing from his vest.

He kept going, moving farther and farther down the hallway. This part of the facility was much larger. He scanned the rooms when he noticed them, but he wasn’t sure he’d caught all of them. As he rounded the corner, the hallway suddenly dimmed.

"No lights," he whispered. "No power? No power, no lights."

He shivered at the long shadows around him, and the quiet. He’d wanted quiet before, but now, in the near darkness, it was freaking him out. He rubbed a hand over his face, wiping a sheen of sweat off his face. Ronon had to be close. How far could he have gone? He just needed to hurry and find him and find Teyla and get back to Rodney. A light forty or so feet flickered on, leaving a tunnel of darkness between him and the rest of the facility.

He just had to push forward. He swallowed, then plunged into the darkness.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Ronon wandered the halls, ducking down corridors and into empty rooms whenever he thought he heard or saw anyone approaching. He’d ended up somewhere else in the outpost, but he didn’t quite remember how that had happened. _A room,_ he thought, _with a raised step and a black panel._ He kept moving though, unwilling to slow his pace. If he was lost then anyone looking for him would be lost, too.

He blinked. Was that right? It made sense. If he couldn’t find his way out, then no one else could find their way in. The Wraith would not be able to track him. The hallways were filthy, covered in mud. Some of the walls had broken, revealing rock and earth behind them. Eventually, the hallways would end, but he tried not to think about that. He focused only on weaving through the hallways and rooms, using the skills he’d gained as a runner to evade the Wraith. He turned right and left, circled back, retraced his routes, and set false prints down half a dozen trails.

By the time he reached a long stretch of dark hallway, he couldn’t remember if he’d been here before or not. His mental map of the facility had long since evaporated, leaving him helpless. He studied the dark hallway for a moment. At its very center, it was pitch black and it occurred to him that the shadows and darkness would work to his advantage. They were protective, keeping him hidden and safe from any lurking dangers. He slid along the wall until he found a small room, its door hanging open. This would work. The room was tiny, more of a closet really, and there was just enough space for him to squeeze into comfortably.

Where he was, the sound of the storms had long since gone away. Either it had ended, or he was too far away to hear it. Maybe too deep? He thought of the earth and rock behind some of the broken walls, the lack of windows. That made sense. He was underground. Like a cave. Caves were good places to hide, until someone found you and you had to run.

"Not safe," he whispered, hunkering down. Was he trapped? If he stopped he was dead, just like when he was a runner. He stared out in to the dark hallway, wondering what he should do. He could leave the darkness, but then where did he go? How long would he expose himself before he found another safe place?

He had survived by running, by always pushing forward back to the next place. Staying one step ahead of pursuing Wraith. He tightened his hands into fist and stood. Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving—

A shadow fell across the far side of the hallway. Ronon could just make out a head and shoulders, arms hanging down on either side. He felt his heart stumble in his chest and he pressed a hand against his ribs. The figure was moving forward, toward this hallway. Toward him.

He sank back into the darkness, letting it wrap around him like a blanket, the shadows a refuge from the dangers prowling around him. As quietly as he could, he let his body sink back to the floor, jamming himself into the closet. When he closed his eyes, the footsteps of the approaching enemy echoed loudly in his head. He could not see the creature, though, and he took comfort in this. If he could not see it, then it could not see him.

His legs were going numb, but he didn’t think he’d be able to run anyway. There was no sound in the hallway, but the danger was still there. He sensed its presence and huddled deeper into the darkness. He had no sense of the passage of time, but soon enough, he heard the footsteps coming down the hallway again. Moving toward him.

Should he jump up, confront his attacker? He took a careful sniff of the air, his stomach roiling at the stench around him. Anything that bad had to be a Wraith. In fact, the smell had been everywhere in this section. The Wraith were all over. For all he knew, this wasn’t even an Ancient facility. It could be a Wraith facility, and if that was the case, he was one man against them all. He had been a runner, but he was equally good at running away from a fight as he was at running toward one. He felt his stomach flip at the thought. No fights—he wouldn’t fight. Couldn’t fight. It was better to run from an overwhelming force. One man against an army stood no chance. They would catch him and slice him up into bloody strings…

He groaned at the image that thought conjured, and nearby footsteps suddenly halted. Ronon’s heart seized in his chest. They could not see him, but he knew they’d be able to hear him. He had been so quiet until now. He wrapped shaking arms tighter around his knees, willing his breathing to slow, but the gasps seemed to echo in the room.

The footsteps moved closer, and Ronon ducked his head, squeezing his eyes shut. If he couldn’t see them, then they couldn’t see him. Couldn’t see him. Couldn’t see him. Couldn’t—

He heard the enemy breathing just a few feet away from him now. He flailed, pushing himself deeper into the small alcove built into the wall, but his back was already pressed up against the wall. There was nowhere he could go. Trapped. The air grew thin, and he gasped at the pain in his chest. The footsteps picked up again, the rapid exhales and inhales of the Wraith signaling it was ready for a fight.

Ronon’s stomach clenched again in rebellion. He could just make out the outline of the creature moving through the darkness toward him, but then his sight of the figure dimmed, and he choked on a sob at the realization that after years of running, he had finally been caught.

It was over.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

By the time John emerged back into the light, he was breathing too fast, his chest heaving as he tried to drag in thick, humid air. He had heard things in the darkness, creaking and pounding and breathing, all muffled under the sound of his own heaving gasps. He stumbled to the floor, barely controlling his descent by sliding along the wall. His head and neck pulsed with competing agony.

 _Give up. Lie down, John. Go to sleep._

He wanted to. Oh, God, how he wanted to.

"Team," he whispered.

 _Darkness, quiet, peace. Hide, John._

"No!" he yelled. He flinched at the volume level but the accompanying adrenaline burst was enough to get him back to his feet. He stumbled forward, forcing himself to looking into every room and call out for Ronon and Teyla. By the time he reached the end of the twisting corridor, sweat coated his face, and he felt beads of it dripping down his skin under his clothes.

 _No one is here,_ he thought. He was alone on this level. He’d made a mistake somehow, or missed Ronon in the search. Or there were even more levels. The possibilities were endless. Overwhelmingly endless. He stopped, leaning against the wall, and tried to figure out what to do. He could search the hallway again, but what if Ronon was in trouble? What if time was essential?

He should go back to the room with the transporter, make sure there were no other levels first. With a nod, he staggered forward. He was making good progress when he reached the patch of lightless tunnel. It seemed longer now, stretching all the way to the far intersection at least a hundred feet away. More lights had gone out in his absence.

His hands started to shake. He would never make it that far, but if he quit now, it would be like he was leaving his team behind, and he didn’t leave anyone behind.

"No," he whispered, shaking his head. He stepped forward, toeing the darkness.

A scraping sound from somewhere deep in the shadows pinned him in place. John held his breath, but he heard nothing over the pounding of his heart. He shook his head, clenching his teeth to keep from crying out.

"Get a grip, John," he said, cringing when his voice broke. He forced himself to take another step forward, and the darkness grew, morphing and reaching out toward him. He blinked at the sweat dripping into his eyes. The hallway was suddenly freezing and he wrapped his arms around his heaving chest. Was that a sign of something? Did the cold mean something was there? All of his instincts were screaming at him to run, to hide. The hair on his arms and neck stood on end as he searched the dark hallway for lurking danger.

The creaking sound echoed again, and it was not just the normal shifting, settling sound of a building. John was sure of it. It was something else. Mercenaries. They were here. They were after his team. He heard harsh breathing coming from out of the darkness, revealing the ambush. He needed to warn somebody—everybody—but when he tried to step back his legs were stuck to the floor, welded in place by some unseen force.

John looked down in a panic, then snapped his head up at the dark. Stuck—he was stuck. He was completely defenseless. He heard harsh breathing all around him, and he wondered if it was his own or someone else’s. It was too loud to just be his own. Whatever power holding him in place had crept up his legs and was now wrapping around his chest like a tight band, forcing air out of his lungs.

He groaned, shaking uncontrollably. He thought of his nightmare, the one where he’d freaked out in the gate room. It had felt just like this. With a burst of effort, he managed to lift one foot up and pull it backward, but the corridor tilted wildly at the same time, and the pressure on his chest clamped down. He stumbled backward, falling just as the shadows finally made their move, leaping toward him.

The last thing he remembered was a lance of fire through his head and neck as he landed, and then the shadows converged across his vision.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The crying screech would not stop, no matter how hard Teyla pushed her fingers into her ears. She felt the warm tears track down her face and tasted the saltiness of them on her lips and tongue. The thing in the room seemed to cry along with her.

Cocooned in the darkness, she relaxed the hands on her ears. The crying sound was pitiful but Teyla found herself beginning to sympathize with it. Was it possible that it was just as scared as her? She pictured the child, Ennaeya—the young Athosian baby. Teyla had no children of her own, but her heart went out to the suffering thing making the whimpering sounds.

Cautiously, she pushed the table away from her alcove and slipped out. The furniture scraped along the floor, and the whimpering cries suddenly ceased. It was what she would have done, she decided. If she was terrified and crying, and suddenly heard a strange noise, she would freeze—hold her breath and wait for the danger to pass. She stood up, wiping the tears from her face. The door slid open, and with the light of the hallway, she managed to find the light switch in the room again.

Teyla bit her lip when the room was suddenly illuminated. She wrapped her arms around herself, scanning every corner for the creature. It sounded small and frail and scared, but it may not be, and scared animals were often the most dangerous. She took a tentative step forward, glancing longingly at her alcove but forcing herself to move past it.

The sound had come from the far corner. She weaved her way forward, pausing every few seconds to listen for possible danger. Her heart was clobbering her insides, making her feel sick to her stomach. She kept her arms wrapped tightly around her body in a helpless attempt to stop them from shaking.

At the next step, she heard a whimper coming from behind an overturned metal box. She gave it a wide berth, stepping around it so she could see what might be coming at her as soon as possible with as much space as possible.

And then her heart melted. A tiny creature, no bigger than both of her hands put together sat up, eyeing her with frozen terror. It was covered in soft tan fur with eyes too big for its head. It squirmed in the small collection of sticks and mud around it—a nest of some kind. Behind it, Teyla saw another tan creature—much larger but looking almost identical to the young one. It was stretched out against the wall, clearly dead. Behind it, she saw a hole burrowed into a broken section of the wall just wide enough for the creatures to squeeze through.

She bit her lip. The mother. The bigger creature must be the mother, but it had died, leaving its youngling behind. She felt more tears prick at her eyes and she crept forward. The tiny creature squawked at her approach, but it was too weak to move. She scooped it up in her hands and held it to her chest, feeling the tiny body shake uncontrollably.

"It is alright, little one," she whispered. She understood its fear. She thought of the food in her backpack and wondered how long it had been since the creature had eaten.

Keeping it close to her body, she walked carefully back to the Blue Room, her thoughts consumed by the needs of the life she now held literally in her hands. Rodney jerked his head up at her in surprise as she entered the room, widening at the sight of the animal.

"Is that…did it attack Sheppard?"

She shook her head. "No, but it is hungry." She knelt by her bag and dug through her supplies for a power bar. "Where is John?" she asked, noticing his absence. He had been asleep the last time she’d been here.

Rodney was still working on his laptop. He shrugged. "Left. Don’t know. I…"

His voice trailed off and Teyla looked up when he didn’t finish. "What is it Rodney?" Her heart thudded in sudden trepidation. Was he holding something back? Did he know something about John? Her mouth dried out, and she licked her lips. "Rodney?"

"I know what happened to us," he blurted out.

"What?"

He pointed to his laptop. "The weapon. I found the weapon."

She cringed, focusing her attention to the creature. She set it on her lap, letting it burrow down against her leg, then peeled open the wrapper of the power bar. The small creature poked its head up at the sound, sticking its nose into the air.

"It did something to us."

She turned her attention back to Rodney with a start.

He was staring down at his laptop. "It’s wrong, though. I don’t understand."

"What is wrong? What did it do?"

"It should have killed us by now. It’s been weeks. It worked much faster in their test subjects."

She glanced around the room again. It had been hours since she’d seen Ronon. "Where is Ronon?"

"Don’t know," Rodney shrugged. He pushed himself to his knees, letting his laptop slide off of him, and he crawled over to her. "Is it safe?" he asks, gesturing to the small animal.

"Just hungry and scared." The animal was nibbling at the powerbar now, the opportunity for food overcoming its instinct to hide.

Rodney grabbed his canteen then poured a bit of water into the cap. He set the cap next to the powerbar and smiled when the critter lapped at the liquid. "Thirsty, too."

"What is wrong with us?"

Rodney glanced up at Teyla, looking terrified. "I don’t want to hurt anyone," he whispered. "Like on Doranda. I killed a man."

Teyla said nothing, the fear at what might have happened expanding in her chest.

Rodney watched the small creature in her lap gnaw at the powerbar. "They were trying to destroy the Wraith part of the Wraith," he finally whispered.

Teyla picked the animal up, holding it to her chest and petting it until it snuggled into her hands and went back to sleep. Rodney turned back to the door, lost in thought, but her fear was back, paralyzing her. She rocked slowly, hoping the tiny creature in her hands would be spared whatever was happening to the rest of them.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Ronon blinked in the darkness, hearing the Wraith move past him, its footsteps echoing down the hall until they died out. A thrill of shock quivered through his gut. Maybe it wasn’t over. Maybe he could still escape. He relaxed his grip on his legs, letting himself unfurl a little. He was alive. The darkness had worked in masking him from his attacker.

He waited, counting slowly to one hundred, then starting over again a second time. Finally, he leaned forward, peering out the door and checking the hallway. It was empty in either direction. No Wraith. No danger.

 _But it will come back. They always come back._

He needed to move while he had the chance. There was no guarantee that the Wraith would not sense him when it returned. Ronon had explored this hallway and knew the creature was heading toward a dead end.

 _Run, run, run!_

He was a runner. A memory rose up in his mind of running through a forest at night, searching for the caves that would protect him from a violent sun. He’d killed a Wraith, and he’d run into a man who’d spent too much time in the radiation of that damaged world. Unbelievably, more people came despite the danger.

Teyla and Sheppard, then Beckett, then McKay and Lorne. He felt his chest tighten. How long had it been since he’d first met them? Teyla had looked him in the eye when she’d talked to him, compassionate but not pitying. Sheppard and his people were different from the others he’d met on the run—defiant against the very things he ran from. Accepting of him, who’d been barely able to talk or sleep or walk without always looking over his shoulder. Half animal.

He pushed himself up to his feet, wincing at the stiffness in his legs. He’d been sitting in that tight space for too long. It would hamper his ability to run later. He knew better. Knew he shouldn’t stay still for so long. That was when they caught up to him. He survived by running. He peered out into the hallway again and saw nothing, though he thought he heard an echoing voice floating back to him.

"Gotta move," he mumbled. "Gotta run."

Yet he was loath to leave the darkness. It had protected him once. Who was to say that it wouldn’t do the same again? His legs shook as blood rushed back through them, the circulation no longer cut off.

 _Go! Run!_

Ronon sucked in a ragged breath. He was a runner. He ran. He lived because he ran. He saw Teyla and Sheppard, tied up in his cave again. Then saw them on his homeworld, rescuing him again from the Wraith. Where were Teyla and Sheppard? And McKay? McKay was usually around, talking too much and making more noise than a school full of children. But they were a team; they did everything together.

He tensed his back, feeling a phantom pain near his spine. The tracker—the way all of the Wraith eventually found him. Beckett had taken it out, twice.

 _Run. You’re a runner. You run. Run or die._

"No."

His voice echoed through the shadows. That wasn’t true. He wasn’t a runner anymore. He didn’t have to run. Footsteps echoed down the hall and he snapped his head toward the sound. His hands tightened on the door frame. It was coming back—the Wraith.

 _Run! Hide!_

"I’m not a runner," he whispered. His fingers were going numb and his legs began to shake. He wanted to slide down, back into the safety of the closet, but he was frozen. His breath wheezed loudly in his ears.

Twenty feet away, a figure appeared. It stopped, hovering on the edge of the black. Ronon could just see its movement out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t dare turn his head and look directly at it. Moving would reveal his position, and then he had no chance of surviving.

He swallowed, working desperately to calm his harsh breathing. The figure, blurry in the corner of his eyes, inched closer, stepping into the shadows. Ronon closed his eyes, begging the thing to keep moving, to pass by him again without noticing, just like it had before.

He heard a groan, then stumbling footsteps, then the thud of a body hitting the floor. When no sound followed, Ronon carefully turned his head toward the Wraith. It was lying in the middle of the hallway, unmoving. Dead? He thought so at first, but after a moment of watching, he noticed the rapid rise and fall of its chest.

He inched out of the closet. Now was the time to run, while the thing was down. Now was his opportunity to escape.

"Not a runner anymore," Ronon said, cringing at the volume of his voice. He had stepped out into the center of the corridor but he paused, waiting to see if the creature would wake up.

It didn’t move. He took another step forward, battling his racing heart. Even as a runner, when he had the upper hand, he fought. He didn’t always run. And now he was part of Atlantis. Now he had a team backing him up.

He edged closer. He saw dark clothes, a vest, a P90 dangling from a clip. He shook his head. Wraith didn’t carry P90s. The body was half turned away from him, but he saw dark hair and pale skin. He stuck his foot out and poked it in the shoulder with his toe.

No response.

With a deep breath, he flipped the body onto its back and blinked in surprise.

"Sheppard?"

Ronon dropped to his knees instantly, digging his fingers into the other man’s neck. The skin was hot to the touch. How had he not recognized Sheppard? He rubbed his face with his hands, realizing something was wrong with him. If he hadn’t hesitated, he might have killed his friend before he’d realized who it was and what he was doing.

"John, wake up," he whispered. He glanced up and down the hall, not liking the way his voice was carrying, revealing his location. Sheppard still didn’t react. In the flickering lights, his face looked drawn and battered. There was something wrong with him, too.

"Teyla and McKay. Have to get you back to them."

He dug his arms under Sheppard and lifted him up. Sheppard was a rag doll, all limp arms and legs, in his grasp and he staggered at the weight.

"Come on, buddy," he said. He turned into the darkness, stumbling toward the intersection that led to the room with the black panel. He could go back up to the other hallways, back to the Blue Room where Teyla and McKay were. They would help him. They would help Sheppard. If anyone could figure out what was wrong with them, it would be McKay, and Teyla was good with illnesses and injuries.

Sweat poured from his face as he walked, and by the time he reached the black panel, his arms were shaking in exhaustion. He had the sudden urge to slide to the floor and lie down, but he fought it. Sheppard was hurt or sick; he needed help. Ronon was the only one who could get him to help.

"Hang on, buddy."

Step by step, he covered the distance back to the Blue Room. The lights were bright on the ground level, the walls and floor cleaner. He didn’t slip as much. Sheppard still hung in his grasp, unconscious. As they passed through the round room, Ronon glanced down the entrance tunnel and saw it had stopped raining outside. He remembered the animal and wondered if the claw marks had caused Sheppard to collapse.

He pushed forward, leaning his shoulder against the wall. Every dozen feet or so, doors would slide open, but Ronon ignored them. He lurched past each opening then slammed against solid wall on the other side, using it to keep him from face planting. His gaze narrowed to the space directly in front of him and where he needed to put his foot next.

With a gasp of relief, he reached the Blue Room and fell through the door. Sheppard’s arms and legs swung as Ronon fought to stay on his feet. He glanced around, seeing McKay and Teyla staring up at him in shock.

"I’m not a runner," he announced, and then Sheppard’s weight was too much. Ronon dropped down as slowly as he could manage, cradling his burden until they were both sprawled on the ground.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Teyla moved first, setting down the small baby animal and crawling to Ronon and John. Rodney continued to stare at them, unsure of what he was supposed to do. He’d wondered continually where the other half of his team had gone, worried that the machine had finished its job on them already. When they showed up alive…

He shook his head. Ronon was alive. John… He wasn’t sure about John. He sat up, leaning to the side to get a glimpse of their team leader. His stomach recoiled at the sight—gray skin, dark circles like bruises around his eyes. The white bandages on his face and neck were mottled with red where blood had seeped through. Teyla was bending over him, looking terrified. Ronon was lying on his side next to them, his skin slick with sweat, his cheeks flushed red but the rest of him looking pale and washed out.

"Ronon?" he called out. His voice quavered, and he clacked his teeth shut.

Ronon shifted on the ground, lifted his head for a second then dropped it down.

"Won’t run," Rodney thought he heard.

He glanced down at his laptop, at the instructions he’d worked out on how the machine operated and what they’d need to do to reverse the effects. He’d guessed at most of it, reversing the steps the machine had run through the first time. A simulation was running for the fifth time, but he didn’t want to draw any conclusions yet. The first four simulations showed that it would probably work, but it was still a risk. Still an unknown. He’d added additional factors in for the fifth simulations and the results were far less promising.

"He is burning up," Teyla said, pressing a hand against John’s face.

"He’s alive?"

"For now," she answered. She held one of his hands and pressed his hair back away from his face in a gentle, continuous petting motion. Like John was another baby animal she had found. "He needs help."

Rodney nodded. Ronon closed his eyes.

Teyla glanced around the room, her eyes landing on her backpack. "Rodney, in my backpack, I have my jacket."

He swallowed. The simulation was flashing angrily at him now and he pushed it away from him. This wouldn’t work—his attempts at reversing the machine’s effects would kill them. It wasn’t enough to just turn it off like they had with the Wraith-Genii machine. It was more complicated than that.

He crawled over to Teyla’s bag and dug through it, grateful for the distraction of looking for a jacket. He should tell them he had failed them, that after all that research and all of the tests he’d run, he would not be able to save them from certain death this time. He found her coat and a water bottle, and he grabbed both before scooting toward his team.

Teyla cradled John’s head while she balled up the jacket and slipped it beneath him. Her hands shook as she did so, but Rodney’s hands were shaking, too. Must be an effect of the machine. He uncapped the water bottle and grabbed Ronon’s shoulder. Ronon’s eyes fluttered open, but before Rodney could say anything about the water, the larger man was reaching for it. He drank desperately, spilling more of it on the floor than he swallowed.

"What the hell?" a voice suddenly shouted, and a figure appeared in the doorway.

Teyla screamed, throwing herself on top of Sheppard, while Ronon curled into a ball next to him. Rodney jerked back, skittering across the floor until he slammed into the wall, the water bottle flying across the room in the process.

"This is Lorne. I found them."

Lorne? Major Lorne? Rodney blinked in confusion. Lorne wasn’t supposed to be here. His back throbbed from the impact against the wall, but when the man in the doorway stepped into the room, Rodney choked back a scream and pushed himself harder against the solid surface.

The figure in front of him froze and held up his hands. Rodney blinked, bringing the man’s face into focus. It _was_ Lorne. What was he doing here? There were footsteps behind him as more people piled into the doorway.

"Bloody hell!"

Carson stepped into the room, his voice unmistakable, and he looked around in alarm. He seemed to think the three people sprawled on the ground were in more need of his help, because he moved there first, ignoring Rodney for the moment.

"Teyla?" he called out. She whimpered, but when he tried to lift her away from John, she stiffened and held tight.

"What’s going on here? We’ve been trying to contact you guys for hours? McKay?"

Rodney jerked. He’d been focused on Teyla and Carson and hadn’t realized that Lorne was talking to him. Someone else slipped into the room, fuzzy hair and glasses easily identifiable.

"Radek?" he whispered.

"Yes, Rodney. What is wrong here? Are you ill?"

Rodney shook his head, but his laptop chose that moment to beep. The simulation was over. He glanced at it, seeing lines of red. "Didn’t work. Can’t fix it," he muttered.

"Colonel Sheppard’s been injured," Carson called out. "My God, his fever is high." He glanced over at Rodney, the only member of the team still sitting up. "What is going on?"

Other people moved in around Ronon, rolling him over and jabbing him with an IV needle. He didn’t react, as limp now as John. Carson had lifted Teyla away from John, and she was crawling toward the small baby animal she’d found. Lorne and Radek stood in the middle of them all, looking around in alarm.

Rodney’s laptop beeped again and he flinched.

"May I look at this?" Radek asked. He squatted down, reaching out for the computer but not moving any closer to Rodney. He hesitated until Rodney nodded, then pulled it toward him. Within seconds, he was flipping through the simulations and research Rodney had come up with on the outpost.

There were other people in the room now. They’d entered while Rodney had been distracted. Marines and medical staff. Someone scooped up Teyla’s small animal and disappeared out the door. Carson stepped back from the group surrounding John and moved toward him.

Rodney stiffened in alarm, but Carson stopped short, kneeling to the ground a few feet from him. A safe distance.

"How…how is he?" Rodney asked. "Sheppard?" His throat was dry, and his voice came out with a squeaky, pre-pubescent break.

Carson shook his head, the concern clear on his face. "Very sick. I need to know what happened to him so that I can treat him. And you and the others."

Rodney nodded numbly. There was something he needed to tell them. Something about this place and the box and what it had done to them. But he couldn’t reverse it. They would ask and he would have to say no, and then his team would die. He would die. Carson inched toward him, and he felt fear swamp him.

"No," he whispered. The door was blocked, people were everywhere. He lifted his hands and stared at his shaking fingers.

"Rodney, let me help," Carson said.

"No, no, sorry, I have to…"

"You have to what?"

"Go…I have to go…I can’t stay."

Carson lifted his hand toward Rodney, but the movement was too fast, swinging toward him. Before he even realized what he was doing, he skittered away from the threat, sliding along the wall until he slammed his back into the corner of the room.

"Rodney?"

"Don’t…don’t hit…I have…p-please…"

Carson frowned, dropping his hand. "I wasn’t going to hit you, Rodney."

"No! I know, I know, I know. I just…" He glanced around the room, looking for a way to get past the doctor. No way out. No way out. Carson inched forward, and the shaking in Rodney’s hands spread to full shudders wrenching through his body.

"Rodney, please, talk to me. Help me understand what’s going on."

Rodney shook his head. "No, it’s okay. Sorry. I have to go."

"Where do you have to go?"

"No!"

"Rodney," Carson soothed, his voice low. He crept forward a little closer, close enough to reach out and grab Rodney’s arm. His hand closed around his wrist, his fingers pressing into the pulse point.

"Don’t," Rodney whispered, but now he was frozen, pressed up against the wall.

"How are you feeling? Your pulse is a little fast."

"Sorry." His voice was barely audible, the muscles in his throat tightening around his vocal cords.

"I know what is happening!" Radek called out, lifting his head from Rodney’s laptop.

Rodney shook his head. The simulations had failed. If they tried to follow his instructions, they would all die. Just like Doranda. He closed his eyes. It was easier that way, if he couldn’t see anyone. He could believe he wasn’t there at all, that he was safe. The hand on his wrist tightened, and he squeezed his eyes tighter until spots of yellow pinged off his eyelids.

"The machine is a variation to the one on… to the Wraith device that the Genii experimented with."

"The one that caused everyone to hallucinate," Carson said darkly.

"Yes, exactly. The effects are slightly different, though. Perhaps it is still causing hallucinations, but it looks like it was designed to target the fight-or-flight reflex of the brain."

"Why would it do that?" Lorne asked.

"It is Rodney’s ‘Great weapon’—the one he found in the database on Atlantis. The Ancients were attempting to pinpoint the area of the brain that controlled the more aggressive impulses of the Wraith, but it did not work."

"Didn’t work," Rodney murmured.

"No, it did not," Radek picked up. "The device was intended to suppress all aggression in the Wraith, like putting someone in a state of stress where the fight-or-flight response kicks in, and then taking away their ability to fight."

"All they have left is flight," Carson finished. He shook his head. "The strain of that would put extreme stress on the body, push it to its limits until—"

"Until the subject eventually gave up, lay down, and died."

"But you said it didn’t work," Lorne piped up.

"Not on the Wraith," Radek answered. "It is all here in Rodney’s notes. The machine worked on humans, suppressing human aggression, but it did not seem to work on the bug side of the Wraith. That side became dominant, taking over and making them even more aggressive than before, if that is possible."

"Can we reverse it?" Carson asked.

"There are notes here…" Radek clicked his tongue as he scrolled through the data. Rodney closed his eyes, not wanting to see the look of horror on the other scientist’s face when he realized he had failed. That they were all dead.

"Yes, it is quite simple actually."

No, it wasn’t. The notes looked simple, but the simulations proved otherwise. They needed to go somewhere safe. Safe, safe, safe. He would go somewhere safe. He wasn’t here. Where was safe? Safe was…he was on Earth. Yes. Earth. Siberia. Siberia was…No, it wasn’t safe. He’d almost died of radiation exposure in Siberia. And hypothermia. Not Siberia. Not Earth. Where? Where was safe? He sucked in a deep breath, then coughed, choking on too little air.

"Rodney—" Carson was still holding onto his wrist and his grip tightened.

Rodney shook his head. "Won’t work," he wheezed. "Won’t work. Can’t do it."

"You already have, Rodney," Radek said.

No, no, no, no. The fear was back, wrapping cold tendrils around his heart and sucking the life out of him. His body shook, the tremors coursing down his arms. Carson reached over, grabbing his other wrist.

"We need to do something quickly," Carson said.

Rodney moaned, drawing his knees up as close to his chest as he could manage. Too late. He’d had his chance to escape, to stop this, but now the opportunity was lost.

 _Doranda,_ he thought. _Death._

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

John woke up to a weight pressing against his head and chest, a rhythmic pounding pulsing through his body. He squirmed against a hard floor, hearing the beep of machines and the whispered brush of people around him.

"Colonel, just relax. We’re taking care of you." A woman’s voice, one he didn’t recognize. His heart rate ratcheted up at the unfamiliarity.

A cool hand pressed against his forehead for a second, then disappeared and he turned toward it. His eyes were glued shut, and no amount of effort on his part was able to reverse that. He moaned. Hot—he was so hot.

"Doctor, he’s awake," the woman said.

More rustling clothes, this time with footsteps, then more hands on his arms, chest, and head. He wanted the cool hands again, but he didn’t know which way they’d gone. He felt his breath come out in whoosh and a deep ache settle into all of his joints. A throbbing burn in his face and neck picked up and he whimpered against the onslaught.

"Easy, John, you’re very sick."

He knew that voice. That accent.

"Carson?"

"Aye, lad. It’s me. You’re running a fever."

Hot. Skin burning. He writhed, feeling a fireball consuming his neck and face, the flames creeping down his body. A cool cloth pressed against his forehead, then was dragged down the side of his face and across his chest, wiping back the inferno.

He coughed, feeling a tug around his mouth. The right side of his face was agony. He lifted his hand toward it, feeling gauze and tape on one side, then a hard plastic mask over his mouth and nose. The cool cloth was lifted from his body, but when it returned, the icy relief startled him into finally snapping his eyes open.

"There you are," Carson said, a blur of tan and yellow and blue moving above John.

"What?" he croaked.

"Do you know where you are? Do you remember what happened?"

John blinked, his memory a swirl of hazy shapes and sounds. The outpost. The animal. His team—he’d been looking for his team. Something was wrong and he needed to get them together, figure out what was going on and get them home. He thought suddenly of the dirty hallway with the broken lights. Too late. Too dark. He gasped at sight of the dark corridor in his minds, the shadows bleeding toward him.

"Dang’r’ss," he hissed, trying to sit up. "Team."

Hands grabbed a hold of him, keeping him in place way too easily.

"You’re safe, John. We’re in the outpost you and your team were exploring. You’ve all been exposed to something but we’re working on reversing the effects." Carson paused, biting his lip and looking uncertain, and John felt a rush of adrenaline through his overheated body at the expression.

"Attack?" he whispered.

 _Not safe. Mercenaries. Not safe, darkness, danger, attack, run run run RUN!_

"Heart rate is increasing," a woman said, but there were too many people around John now. He couldn’t see who had spoken. Hands were moving around him, too fast to track.

"John, you need to try and slow your breathing down," Carson said, eyes wide with concern now. "You need to fight this."

Something was wrong. He could see it in Carson’s face. See it in the frantic movements of the nurses around him. Feel it in his own body. He shook his head, feeling spit spray out of his mouth with each harsh, rapid exhale. The people around him were talking again, their voices garbled and growing faint. Another sensation ran up his arm from the IV, a tingling sensation creeping up his veins, and sounds began to fade. Drugs. His eyes grew heavy but didn’t close completely.

"That’s it," Carson cooed. "Just relax."

He was lying on a floor, he realized. The hard ground dug into his shoulder blades through a thin pad. He looked around, recognizing the Blue Room through the blur of people. Beside him, he saw Ronon lying on another pad, seemingly asleep.

"The others?" he rasped out. "My team?"

"They’re here. Teyla’s next to you and Rodney is over near the wall."

"Something…wrong…" It was getting harder and harder to string words together. He blinked and almost couldn’t force his eyes open again.

Carson patted him on the shoulder. "Aye, we know. Rodney figured out what it was and Radek and his team are adjusting the machine as we speak. We’ll get you sorted in no time. You just need to hang on until then, alright?"

"’Kay," he whispered. He shivered, his body temperature shifting instantly from hot to cold.

"John?"

"C-cold…" he muttered. He felt a light sheet being pulled up over his chest. His shirt was gone, and a portable heart monitor dinged next to him in a fast but steady rhythm.

"Chills," Carson answered. "Your fever’s still high."

John nodded. With so many people moving around him—medical staff, scientists, military personnel—he could let himself relax a little. Or maybe it was the drugs. His eyes drifted closed.

"The base is clear—no one else here," a man said, his voice rough and slightly accented.

"Good. Let’s keep guards up just in case—at least from any animals that might wander in," Lorne answered.

The overheard conversation triggered a deep instinct in John and he lurched up, barely able to open his eyes. He managed to sit up all the way before shouts and hands grabbed at him, holding him in place. Something sticky pulled at his chest, and the heart monitor beeped frantically.

"John?"

"No," he whispered. His strength was already deserting him and he sagged into the arms holding him up. "Mercenaries. Attack. Not safe."

"You’re safe, John. We all are." Carson was kneeling next to him, whispering directly into his ear. "I know it doesn’t feel like that, but you’ve got to trust us."

"Not safe," he repeated.

"Radek, how much longer?" Carson asked.

The last of John’s strength gave out, and he was lowered carefully back to the floor. Air from the mask hissed louder, tickling his lip and drying out his mouth. He wanted water but lacked the energy to ask for some. He drew in a deep breath, and his shaking chills subsided, his body temperature crossing back over into too-hot territory. He moaned, pushing the thin sheet off his chest.

"We have the machine hooked up and all tests show that it is working properly."

"Not a minute too soon," Carson responded. "John’s the worst off. Let’s move him in first, then Ronon, Teyla, and Rodney. Get a stretcher over here."

John heard the anxious conversation around him, felt the hands manipulating and lifting him, felt the outpost move around him as he traveled from one room to another. He opened his eyes to slits when he felt himself being settled back on the ground, and saw Carson kneeling next to him, a stethoscope pressed against John’s ribs. Behind the doctor, on the ceiling, he saw round glass bulging slightly from the ceiling.

He’d seen it before, weeks ago, from this same position. People suddenly moved out of the way and someone shouted, and then John’s world was swathed in green light.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"I don’t want oatmeal. I want waffles."

The stringent voice cut through the haze John was floating in, forcing him to blink open heavy eyelids. He sucked in a deep breath, tasting the stale air of bottled oxygen and the tug of a cannula along his lip.

"John?"

Teyla. He smiled at the sound of her voice and rolled his head toward her.

"Hey," he rasped. Atlantis came into focus, the soft hum and click of a dozen machines around them, the whispered voices of nurses and doctors and patients spread out over the infirmary bay. "We’re home."

She looked tired and worried, but her face lit up at his croak. "Yes, we are." When he licked dry lips, she immediately reached for a pitcher of water behind her. She poured the clear liquid into a glass, and John lifted a shaky hand toward it. She let him hold it—kind of. She didn’t quite let go of the cup, but John couldn’t grump too much about that. He scowled at the weakness in his arms, knowing that without Teyla’s help, he would have spilled it all over himself.

"I don’t want apple juice. I also don’t want oatmeal. I hate oatmeal. I want waffles and coffee and syrup."

John managed a few sips before the glass was taken away. He glanced around, spotting Ronon and Rodney in beds across from him. Teyla was wearing scrubs and she settled down into a chair beside him.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice cracked and hoarse.

"We almost killed ourselves on McKay’s weapon," Ronon answered.

"It is _not_ my weapon," he huffed. "How many times do I have to tell you—"

"Rodney," Teyla cut off. "It is not your fault. Ronon is only saying that to irritate you."

"It is irritating me," he answered. He shot a glare at Ronon, which darkened when the man smiled in response. "You are irritating."

Teyla sighed, but she was saved from intervening by the arrival of Carson.

"Rodney! Will you keep your voice—Oh! Colonel!"

"He has just awoken," Teyla supplied.

Carson came over, grabbing John’s wrist and feeling out the pulse despite the myriad machines John was just realizing he was attached to. "You had us worried. How are you feeling?"

John sucked in another deep breath, cataloguing his body. He was tired and achy, and felt weaker than a baby. Muted pain pulsed along his face and neck. He shrugged.

"Tired, I imagine," Carson filled in. He pulled out a stethoscope and pressed it against John’s chest.

"How can he be tired? He slept for days." Rodney turned to John, a full spoon of oatmeal waving dangerously in his hand. "Days, Sheppard. What the hell? Who sleeps for days?"

Carson sighed and shifted the bell of the stethoscope to the other side. "Someone who is extremely sick, that’s who."

He’d been sick. He vaguely recalled that. A fever or something. He lifted his hand, fingering the thick bandages on his neck. The animal attack in that old outpost. No, wait. Mercenaries. The mercenaries?

"I was sick too," Rodney retorted. "I didn’t sleep for days."

"Maybe you should try that," Ronon muttered.

"Safe?" he rasped, his heart ramping up at the thought of the mercenaries.

Carson squeezed his shoulder, reassuring him. "We’re safe."

Behind the doctor, John saw Rodney spin toward Ronon, still holding his spoonful of oatmeal. "You never quit, do you?"

"Do you?"

"Enough!" Teyla snapped, and even Carson jumped at the tone of her voice. John smiled at the look on both Rodney and Ronon’s faces as she stood up and approached them. "We were all sick and we are all still tired and still recovering, but your continuous bickering is not helping. No more. Is that understood?"

They nodded, sinking into their beds and refusing to meet her gaze. Teyla studied them for a moment then climbed into her own bed, right next to John’s. She pulled out an iPod and stuffed the earbuds in. A moment later, she’d settled back into the pillows and closed her eyes.

"She’s just mad one of the Marines let her little pet back into the jungle," Rodney muttered. Or John thought that was what he’d muttered. It made no sense. He shook his head, filing away the question for later.

"Remind me not to get on her bad side," Carson whispered with a chuckle.

"No kidding," John agreed. Ronon leaned back, staring at the ceiling and tapping his fingers against his chest, while Rodney hunkered over his oatmeal again. "What about…uh…were there mercenaries?"

"On the outpost? No, it was just you and your team," Carson replied. "Unfortunately, they’re still out there somewhere. Any pain?" He fingered the bandages along John’s neck.

John breathed deeply, testing his body. "Aches a little, but not too bad," he finally answered.

"You’re still running a slight fever, but we’ve got it on the run now. A few more days and you’ll be back to your old self." Carson smiled, his eyes sweeping the room. "All of you will."

"How’d we get back here?"

Carson smoothed out the bandage he had peeled back and straightened up. "On a stretcher, carried by a couple of hearty Marines. Once Radek reversed the effects the machine was having on you, we carried you and your team back to Atlantis. The stress on your bodies of the last few weeks made you all particularly susceptible to infection and illness, but I can say with absolute certainty that you’re all mending. In a few days, you’ll be back to your old selves."

"What machine? At the outpost? The weapon?"

"Aye. We’ll tell you all about it when you’re feeling better."

John nodded, squirming a little in the bed until he found a more comfortable position. "Glad we got that figured out."

Rodney sat up. "Not we, Sheppard. I. I figured it out."

"Thought Radek did that," Ronon said, causing Rodney to sputter in indignation. Teyla picked up her iPod, pointedly turning the volume louder.

"I’m the one who figured out—"

"Alright," Carson said, interrupting. "You can debate who did what later. John, get some rest. Rodney, eat your breakfast—"

"I don’t want this! I want waffles."

"I want that," Ronon said, sitting up and leaning toward Rodney’s bed.

"Stop trying to eat my breakfast!"

"Ronon, lad, if you want more, all you have to do is—"

"I want more."

"I want more too," Rodney added. "But not this. I want something good. I want—"

Carson threw his hands up in the air. "Waffles. We know. I’ll see what we can scrounge up for you, but no promises." He backed out of the infirmary, trying to look stern but John caught the small smile on the doctor’s face as he headed back to his office.

"Yeah, quit griping, McKay," Ronon said, standing up and heading for his own bed. "I’m not picky, Doc," he called out, even though Carson was gone. "I’ll take more of whatever. Even oatmeal."

"Fine," Rodney huffed. "You want oatmeal so bad, eat mine."

"Yours is cold."

"Irritating. Just irritating." Rodney set his tray on the table next to his bed and leaned back, folding his arms. "You know what I really want right now, more than waffles? Cake."

"I could do cake."

"Cake for breakfast. Who made up the rule that cake was not a breakfast food anyway?"

"Mothers."

"Seriously. Hey, you," Rodney called out, snapping his fingers at someone John couldn’t see. He pointed to himself then Ronon. "We want cake."

Teyla sighed, pulling a pillow over her head. John laughed, knowing exactly what Teyla was doing. If his teammates were bickering this much, especially Rodney and Ronon, then everyone was fine—or soon would be. He let his eyes drift closed, mimicking Teyla’s strategy. Sometimes, it’s good to stay and fight, but other times—like now—there was nothing wrong with a strategic retreat. He twisted a little, getting comfortable, then let himself sink back into a quiet, peaceful sleep.

END


End file.
